Unlikely Heroes
by Kathi With An I
Summary: A mystic with a past she cannot escape. An assassin with a future he does not want. Two impossible friends, with an even more impossible task: saving Cyrodiil. F!OC/Martin. Follows Main Quest, Shivering Isle, Mage's Guild and Dark Brotherhood.
1. Prologue

**A/N Hi. I'm back.**

**For those wondering about my vanishing act, I just had some really important life stuff to figure out. My best friend essentially dumping me, having to work twice as hard to catch up in my classes, it's been a rough time. I haven't disappeared completely from the internet, but I just needed to get away from FFN and Tumblr for a while. I may remake my tumblr later. So yeah. Real life came back with a vengeance and socked me in the jaw.  
**

**So, now that my life has been mostly figured out, I'm rewriting Unlikely Heroes. I've been tweaking my writing style (a lot,) so this should be better. Or horribly worse, I don't know.**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

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_The Twelfth of Last Seed, 3E433_

* * *

They found the Breton in the crypt with blood on her hands.

She was sitting in the corner, staring at her crimson-stained palms, sobbing uncontrollably. A few feet away was a body, broken and bloody and mangled to the point where it was almost unrecognizable. When they asked her who it was that died, she didn't answer, not for a long time. She didn't even move for several minutes. But eventually, got to her feet, stumbled weakly over to the nearest guard, and held out her hands. "I killed him," she murmured. "Look. The blood's on my hands. I killed him."

They questioned her words at first. Why wouldn't they? She had confessed way too quickly, been way too eager - if that was the right word to describe her hysterical sobs - to let herself be taken to prison. It was only natural to assume that she was protecting someone. So they brought in a mage to charm the woman. If she was charmed, she couldn't lie to the charmer.

When the mage arrived, he recognized the woman on sight. She was Rosemonde Rousseau. She was a former member of the Mage's Guild, a mystic, and had been banned from it due to reasons he refused to elaborate on. "I do find it hard to believe that she would kill a man, though," he said, kneeling next to the woman. She didn't look at him.

He cast a charm spell on her, and she confessed. She had been telling the truth. She had killed the man. Violently.

So they took her away. She didn't complain, or struggle. In fact, she followed them to her prison cell like an obedient puppy.

The guards were a little disturbed. She was so small, so slight. How could she have managed to overpower a man so much larger than her and kill him so violently?

What confused them most, though, was Rosemonde's answer when she was asked why she killed him.

Her eyes had widened, she had pulled away slightly, pressing herself further against the wall. Her voice was quiet as she answered. "He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to follow me. I _told_ him not to follow me." She started to sob again. "The magic... it just got away from me... I wasn't strong enough to control it... he wasn't supposed to follow me."

She didn't say another word.

* * *

_The Twenty-Sixth of Last Seed, 3E433_

* * *

Ivar Llandovery knew about the grudge that most of the Market District held against Thoronir. He had drawn away most of their business, selling valuable items for prices far below their true worth. How he managed to stay in business, Ivar couldn't say. He reasoned that stolen goods were involved, though.

The Bosmer made his way through the streets, his footsteps as light as air. He knew about the grudge, all right, but he hadn't expected someone to want Thoronir dead badly enough to contact the Dark Brotherhood. Not that Ivar was complaining, mind. He was getting paid for this, after all. And he always enjoyed the pleasure of taking another being's life. Striking a mark down with a single arrow, sinking his dagger into their flesh... He smirked a the mere thought.

Guided by the dim light of the stars, he made a beeline for Thoronir's shop. The Copious Coinpurse. Ivar grinned. It wouldn't be quite so copious when he slit Thoronir's throat and took every valuable possession in his house. He hadn't been able to do that last time, when he had taken out Baelin. Vicente had wanted it to look strictly like an accident, and an empty jewelry box would have compromised that.

Ivar knelt next to the door, examining the lock with a careful eye. A simple five-tumbler lock. Too easy, especially when one had the tools that he did. He pulled a small lockpick the color of ebony out of the pouch on his belt and inserted it into the lock.

As soon as as it went in, the lock started glowing and vibrating, a low hum reverberating through the lock and spreading across the door. There was a loud _click_. Ivar didn't need to test to know what that meant. The door was open. He pulled out the lock and reached for the door's handle, standing up as he did. He would have to thank Nocturnal for her kind gift later, when time wasn't of the essence.

Something sharp brushed at the back of his neck. Ivar's ear twitched in irritation, and he silently cursed every god and Daedric Prince he could think of before slowly turning around. His gaze locked with that of the Imperial guardsmen who was currently pointing a sword at him. "Good evening, sir," he said, forcing his best smile. "Has your evening been particularly pleasant?"

"Silence, criminal scum," the guard growled.

"'Scum?'" Ivar repeated, faking incredulity. "That's a little harsh, isn't it? All I did was pick a lock."

The guard glanced down at Ivar's night-black leather armor. "You've done more than that, _assassin_."

Ivar sighed. _Shit_. "I suppose begging for mercy is out of the question, then."

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**A/N - Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.**


	2. Silence

**A/N - I'm going to try to update this more often than I did last time. I'm also hoping to have longer chapters, more details, more sidequests, and I'm taking the characters in a bit of a different direction this time, so it's not going to be a word-for-word copy of my last attempt at this, pre-reality check. I hope you like it regardless. :)**

**harari24 - Aww, thank you! :3 I'm doing much better now, I just had a huge bump in the road, IRL wise. But I'm back, and hopefully a better person because of it. And this time I'm not leaving.**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

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_I was born eighty-seven years ago. For sixty-five years I've ruled as Tamriel's Emperor. But for all these years, I have never been the ruler of my own dreams. I have seen the gates of Oblivion, beyond which no waking eye may see. Behold, in darkness a doom sweeps the lan__d. This is the twenty-seventh of Last Seed, in the year of Akatosh four-thirty-three. These are the closing days of the Third Era..._

_And the final hours of my life._

* * *

_The Twenty-Seventh of Last Seed, 3E433_

* * *

Ivar Llandovery awoke to find silence greeting him.

But this wasn't the good kind of silence. The good kind of silence was back at the sanctuary, where the only noise was the occasional squeak from the Sanctuary pet of sorts, Schemer. The footsteps of his Dark Brothers and Sisters were barely noticeable when he was at his most alert, leaving him capable of retreating into his own head. The _good_ kind of silence was the silence of a moonless night, when he was stalking a mark, bow in hand and quiver of arrows strapped to his back, thirsting for blood.

But this silence... this silence was _wrong_. It has an icy feel to it, seeping into his bones and chilling his very core. Or perhaps that was the dank floor beneath his back. Everything around him seemed dank and mildewy, even the cold stone of the wall, in an almost familiar manner.

And why wouldn't it be familiar? After all, this wasn't the first time Ivar had spent his days in a prison cell.

He opened his eyes and sat up, running a hand through his short silvery-blond hair. He felt a bump on the base of his skull. He winced. Damned guard.

He looked around. The cell he was in was more spacious than most of the other ones he had been in. There was a wooden table nearby, with an empty jug and bowl sitting atop it. This one also had a window, light streaming in and coalescing in a patch on the floor. Ivar's first thoughts were of escaping through it, but it was too high up and far too small for him to fit through. The metal bars were also a bit of a problem. He turned to the iron barred door with the hopes that it would yield better luck. It was going to be locked, but with the Key that wouldn't be a problem. He reached for his belt pouch.

And found nothing. He jumped to his feet, swearing in every language he knew. He wasn't wearing his leather armor anymore, _damn_ it. Instead, we was wearing a pair of patched, threadbare breeches and a shirt that was probably a potato sack in a past life. He didn't even have the Blade of Woe on him. Fantastic.

There was a small scuffling noise behind him. Jumping slightly, Ivar whirled around, instinctively reaching for the spot on his hip where his dagger would be. A Breton woman stood in a rectangular alcove in the wall, her back pressed up against the wall. She looked only to be a couple years older than he himself was, though she was small, almost as small as he was, and she looked far worse for the wear. Her pallid face was smeared with dirt and dust, and her long auburn hair was ratty and unkempt. Her eyes were round as coins and almost as wide as she stared at him, light hazel gaze meeting Ivar's own bright green. She was wearing rags similar to his, and Ivar wagered that he could count each and every one of her ribs under them. The only difference were the iron cuffs around her wrists that seemed to glow with a faint green energy. Ivar recognized them as the kind of cuffs guards would put on a magic user to keep them from blowing up their cell or something along those lines. So his cell mate was a mage, then.

"Hello," he said, smiling as best as he could under such circumstances. "Looks like we're in the same boat, eh?"

She didn't answer.

"What's your name?" Ivar asked, the tone of his voice light. He killed for a living, yes. That didn't mean he couldn't be friendly to a fellow prisoner.

Still no answer from the Breton. She just stood there, like a scared deer. It was a bit annoying, to be honest.

"Don't try getting an answer from her, wood elf," a sharp voice drawled from the cell opposite Ivar's. "The stuck-up harlot's been in here two weeks and she hasn't said a word to anyone."

"Really now?" Ivar asked, turned to the speaker. A Dunmer stood in the cell, a smirk emblazoned across his ashen features. "And why is that?"

"Why would I know?" the Dunmer spat. "And I don't see why you'd care, _wood elf_. Shouldn't you be more concerned with getting back to your precious forests? I know your lot just hate to spend a day without frolicking."

Ivar raised a thin eyebrow. _So that's how it's going to be._ Well, two could play at that game. Just because he could be friendly doesn't mean he had to be.

"Well, I don't know," he said, approaching the cell door. He leaned against the bars, grinning maliciously.. "Shouldn't you be digging in your sewers, _Dunmer_?"

The Dunmer scoffed. "At least I'm getting out of here alive," he gloated. "You and her, though? You're both going to die."

"Funny," Ivar said. "Last time a Dunmer told me that, I slit his throat as he begged for mercy. Then I cut out his heart and brought it back to my employers for payment." He could hear the Breton gasp slightly behind him. He chose to ignore it. "He looked a lot like you, too. Of course, all you Dunmer look the same. For all I know, he could have been your long-lost brother."

The Dunmer's crimson eyes narrowed, and he stepped back into the shadows. "Just remember," he said. "You're going to _die_ in here, wood elf! You're going to die!"

Ivar rolled his eyes. He didn't plan on dying here. The guards couldn't prove he was an assassin, not really. He could claim that he was an adventurer, and that he got the armor and weapons off a body he found in a ruin. The worst crime that guards could undeniably accuse him of doing was attempting to break into someone's shop.

As for the Breton, though, he had no idea what her crime was. She didn't look like she could hurt a house rat, much less a human being. She could be a thief, but every thief he had met was unrepentant about their crimes. This woman had shame practically _written_ in her eyes.

He sighed and pushed himself away from the iron door just as the Breton walked up to it, wrapping her delicate fingers around one of the bars. "Rosemonde Rousseau," she said, locking gazes with him.

"I'm sorry?"

"You asked me what my name was," she explained, shrugging nonchalantly. "It's Rosemonde Rousseau."

Rosemonde Rousseau. How very _Breton_. "My name's Ivar Llandover," Ivar said.

"That doesn't sound like a Bosmer name."

"It's not. I was raised by Imperials. I thought you weren't talking to anyone?"

"I wasn't talking to _him_." The Breton... Rosemonde... pointed at Valen, who was glaring at them both. "He's an arse. You're not quite as bad, I hope. At least you're not belittling me. And really, it's nice to see the bastard get talked down, thought I wish you hadn't been quite so gruesome about it." She stared warily at him. "Did you... did you really cut out a man's heart?"

Ivar snorted. "No. I did slit his throat, but cutting out his heart would have just been purely for the theatrics. I don't do theatrics. I prefer to get the job done and go home."

Rosemonde tensed and pulled away ever so slightly. "So you have killed a man."

"Well, yes. I'm clearly a criminal, otherwise I wouldn't be in here." Ivar crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the door. "So, what did you do to end up in here? Steal someone's spoon?"

Guilt flickered in the Breton's eyes. "No, not that," she said quietly. "I'd rather not talk about that, if you don't mind."

Ivar shrugged. "Well, that's your prerogative," he said. "I was just thinking that a scrawny little thing like you doesn't exactly look like a hardened crimi-"

_Creeaak_.

"What was that?"

Rosemonde shook her head. "It's probably just the warden coming to bring us food. It is about that time," she muttered. "I wouldn't worry too much."

A voice cut through the air. "Baurus! Close that door behind us!"

"Or it could be someone completely different," Rosemonde said. She immediately backed away from the cell door, pressing her back against the far wall. Ivar instead leaned forward further, trying the catch what the person coming down the stairs was saying. Or rather, the people. Ivar could easily count at least three sets of footsteps, loud and heavy and metallic. There was another set of footsteps as well, but those one was quieter, lacking the weight of the others.

A voice, deep and rich, sound out. "My sons... they're dead, aren't they?"

"We don't know that, Sire," the first voice said. "The messenger only said that they had been attacked."

"No... they're dead. I can feel it."

The first voice sighed so quiet Ivar could barely hear it, even with his Bosmer ears. "I'm sorry, Sire, but my job right now is to get you out of the city safely." The speaker walked into Ivar's line of sight, and he couldn't help but pull a double take. _Well now._

The speaker was an Imperial woman. But that wasn't the remarkable part. The remarkable part was her armor. It looked different than that of the guardsmen; it looked more ceremonial than anything, though Ivar didn't doubt its strength. It reminded him of the Akaviri armor his had seen in books and the like. His gaze was drawn to her sword. It was long and thin, and it held a curve to it. He glanced over at the others with the woman. Two of the men, a Redguard and another Imperial, had the exact same armor and swords. But the third man... _well_. He was older than the others, far older, with thin white hair that fell to his shoulders and a face worn with age and worry. His eyes were a bright blue, reminiscent of Lake Rumare on a summer's midday. He was wearing elaborate robes of purple and red, lined with thick white fur. And around his neck hung a large golden pendant with an inlaid rube the size of Ivar's fist.

Suddenly, the golden rings and silver necklaces that Ivar frequently stole from the homes of his targets seemed like worthless baubles.

The first guard, the woman, glared at him and Rosemonde in quick succession. "What are these prisoners doing here? The cell was supposed to be off limits."

"I-I'm not sure, Captain," the other Imperial stammered, fidgeting uncomfortably. "It must have just been a mix-up with the watch, I'll..."

The woman sighed irritably. "Never mind. Get that gate open." She gestured to Ivar. "You! Prisoner! Get back."

Ivar glared at her. Was she telling him what to do? "I'm sorry, _ma'am_, but I'm not exactly eager to follow orders from a _stranger_. Or anyone, really."

"I said _get back_," the captain snapped. "I won't hesitate to run you through myself."

_What a lovely personality_, Ivar thought bitterly, moving away from the door and standing next to Rosemonde by the wall. His ears twitched in agitation. _I'm just so very glad I met her._

The captain grabbed a key off her belt and inserted it into the lock. The door swung open with a high-pitched_ creeeeak._ "Come on," she said to the others. "We need to move quickly, before we're caught."

Ivar watched as the the guards and the old man entered the cell, his curiosity growing steadily as the captain approached the alcove that Rosemonde had been standing in not ten minutes ago. She lay her hand on an oddly-colored brick directly next to the alcove, and pushed on it. To Ivar's surprise, it actually sank into the wall.

There was a shudder, and a loud rumble. Rosemonde let out a sound that could only be described as a squeak, grabbing at the table to steady herself. To the surprise of both her and Ivar, the alcove opened up, revealing a passageway leading down deep into an underground ruin. "Best to not close it," the captain muttered. "There's no way to open it from the other side."

It was only then that Ivar realized that the old man in the elaborate robes was staring at him, with an emotion on his face Ivar could not place. Was it fear? Sadness? Resignation? "Problem?" he asked, glaring at the man.

"You..." the old man murmured. "I've seen you..." His gaze softened slightly. "Then the stars were right, and this is the day. Gods give me strength."

Ivar's eyes widened slightly. "Well, you having seen me before is quite disturbing," he said, "especially considering my job involves _not_ being seen. Just who are you and how do you know me, old man?"

The Imperial soldier glared at him. "Mind your tongue!" he snapped. "This is the Emperor of Tamriel you're speaking to!"

Ivar noticed Rosemonde gasping next to him. He didn't pay her so much as a second glance. "The Emperor of Tamriel?" he laughed, his tone that of mock disbelief. He had no doubts the guard spoke the truth. He just didn't care. "What is the Emperor of Tamriel doing in the Imperial Prison? Paying me a visit? I'm flattered, really, but you didn't need to come see me. I've got plenty of company down here." Granted, a scrawny Breton and a foul-mouthed Dunmer weren't the most illustrious example of quality companionship, but one takes what one can get.

The Redguard indignantly opened his mouth to speak, but the Emperor spoke first. "Assassins attack my sons, and I'm next. My Blades are leading me out of the city through a secret escape route that by chance happens to lead through your cell." He gestured to the passageway.

So the Emperor was fleeing. And the soldiers.. the Blades, they were called?... expected Ivar to respect him? "What does it being my cell have to do with anything?" he snapped. "I'm just a common criminal. A dime a dozen." That was a bold-faced lie. Ivar prided himself on being significantly more capable that the common criminal."

The Emperor's expressions didn't change. It was a bit unnerving, to be honest. "Perhaps. But that is not what you will be remembered for."

"Actually, yes it will. I have no plans on changing my course of action, and you don't get a say in that, Emperor or not." Now almost _everybody_ was glaring at him. The guards, the captain, Rosemonde... everyone except the Emperor. Ivar wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"Of course," the Emperor said. "We all take our own paths in life." His eyes darkened slightly. "But what path can be avoided whose end has been fixed bt the Almighty Gods?"

_My path, damn it_. Ivar didn't much care for the notion of predetermined fate. In fact, he hated it. He refused to accept what anyone would have to say about his fate. The only will he would obey was the will of Sithis. No one else.

"Sire," the captain said, her voice taking a tone of urgency. "we must get moving."

"Of course, Renault," the Emperor said, finally turning away from Ivar. Good. He didn't care to be stared at for so long.

He watched as the four headed into the passageway, with the captain taking the lead. A few moments passed before Ivar smirked and pushed himself away from the wall. "A secret entrance right in my cell, leading to outside the city?" he said, chuckling. "That's an invitation if I ever saw one." He approached the passage entrance before glancing back at Rosemonde. "Are you coming?"

"W-what?" Rosemonde stammered, staring at him like he had gone mad.

"This is a chance for both of us to get out of here. Are you coming or not?"

Rosemonde hesitated, biting her lip with a nervous expression on her face. Then she nodded and stepped forward. "Fine. All right. I don't want to be here if those assassins the Emperor mentioned showed up, anyhow."

"Wonderful!" Ivar said, grinning. "Come on, then, no time to lose." He turned back towards the passage and took a deep breath. The air was fresher, with none of the dank mildew smell of the cell. Keeping a firm hand on the side of the passageway, he made his way down into the ruins.

_What a day._

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**A/N - I wrote this chapter in Ivar's point of view instead of Rosemonde's because it felt more appropriate and more fitting with the prologue. I've also changed Ivar's personality a little bit. Don't worry, he's still mostly the same snarky bastard from the last UH. I'm not sure where to go with Rosemonde's personality to accommodate the changes in the story, but she should still be the same.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated. :)  
**


	3. Caverns

** A/N - I was supposed to get this done earlier, but I didn't. :( I'm sorry. I also rushed a bit at the ending.  
**

**Ailkaro - Oh, thank you! It's always nice hearing that I've gotten better in my writing. And I have no intentions of making like a magician and disappearing again, trust me. Too many plot bunnies popped up for me to ignore.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

* * *

Rosemonde _had_ to be dreaming. That was the only possible explanation she could think of. She was escaping from a prison she had willingly put herself in via a secrets passageway in said prison, alongside a killer, the _Emperor of Tamriel_, and a trio of Blades. There was no way, no _possible_ way any on this could be happening.

And yet it was.

She followed the others down deeper into the ruins, her heartbeat gaining speed. She hadn't known there had been an entire ruin under the city. Was it a remnant of the great Ayleid cities, raised thousands of years before she was born? That seemed to be the case; the White Gold tower was built by the Aldmer, and it made sense that these ruins would be, too. They even looked similar to some of the ruins she had explored back in her youth, before she joined the Guild. Before... She shook her head clear of any welcome thoughts. Where she was didn't matter. What mattered was what was going on.

The Emperor, fleeing from assassins. The Blades, who kept shooting suspicious looks at her like she was about to attack. Ivar, the strange fair-haired Bosmer who had cheerfully admitted to killing a man.

Why couldn't it be a dream? Why did it have to be real?

Captain Renault's shocked cry cut through Rosemonde's thoughts. "Ambush!"

The other Blades barely had time to pull out their swords and move into a defensive position around the Emperor before the assassins attacked, jumping down from a ledge that led into the darkness of the ruins. Their red-and black armor was unfamiliar, but the very sight of it still sent a chill down Rosemonde's spine. The Blades were holding them off, but barely. The captain was especially in bad condition. _Damn it!_

Rosemonde wasn't sure what to do. She wasn't any good in a fight, at least not without her magic. And even then, she was a _mystic_. She couldn't rain fire upon the assassins. She couldn't freeze them solid with a thought. Not that either would do much good. With the rusty enchanted cuffs on her, she wouldn't be able to cast anything.

Ivar, meanwhile, wasted no time panicking. As one of the assassins charged towards the group, brandishing a bloodstained dagger, the Bosmer nimbly dodged out of the way, ducking under the assassin's outstretched arm and behind them. He grabbed the assassin and in one swift move, snapped his neck.

Rosemonde blinked. He hadn't been kidding before. He was a killer. Not that she had doubted him before, mind.

"Oi, Rose!" Ivar cried out. "Behind you!"

Ignoring the irritation that bubbled up at the unwelcome nickname, Rosemonde whirled around to see another assassin, swinging a large mace at her. She barely had time to dodge out of the way. _Damn_! That mace looked like it could crush her skull, easily.

As the assassin whirled around, getting ready to attack again, an idea flitted through Rosemonde's mind. It was a mad idea, yes, but it just might work. She gritted her teeth and, making a wild guess, kicked the assassin in the groin.

The assassin dropped his weapon doubled over, howling in pain. Thank Stendarr for fifty-fifty chances. She didn't hesitate, quickly grabbing the mace. She took a deep breath, bracing herself, before bashing the pommel of the mace against the left cuff. The cuff cracked easily, cutting through the enchantment like a knife through an apple. Pain shot through her wrist and up her arm, followed by an uncomfortable numbness. She let out an involuntary cry of pain, dropping the weapon. As she did, something stirred inside her. Her magicka, no longer bound by the magic of the cuffs, flowed through her veins, wild and free and begging to be let _out_.

The assassin had gotten to his feet. Rosemonde immediately concentrated her magicka, her fingers tingling with energy. As the assassin lunged at her, she hit him with the strongest wave of telekinetic energy she could muster, throwing him into the nearest wall. He crumpled to the ground, dead before he hit the floor. His armor melted away, revealing an Altmer in rich red robes. The mace at Rosemonde's feet melted away, too.

It took Rosemonde a moment to realize what she had just done. She gasped and stumbled backwards, eyes wide. _No. No no no no no no..._

She didn't even notice that the fight had been won until Ivar placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her up. "You all right?" he asked.

"I... I _killed_ him."

"Yes, you did. Nice use of magic, by the way. I've never seen a mage use a telekinesis spell for anything more than flipping shingles." He smirked. "That a specialty of yours?"

She stared at him, aghast. She had just _killed_ a man, and here he was asking about her _magic_? Was he insane?

_No,_ she reminded herself. _He's a killer. Of course he'd be so nonchalant about all of this_. Shooting him a filthy look, Rosemonde turned her attention to the Emperor, who look largely untouched. "Are you all right, Sire?" she asked.

The Emperor nodded. "Yes, I am fine," he said, looking a little distracted. He looked over at the two Blades. _Wait, two?_ "Captain Renault," he said, "where is she?"

"She's... She's dead, sire," the Redguard said quietly. "I'm sorry."

The Emperor looked wearier than before, if such a thing was possible. Rosemonde had to fight the urge to reach out and comfort him. He was the Emperor of Tamriel. And even if she was worthy of even _speaking_ to him, what would she say? Nothing she could think of seemed adequate.

Before anyone could say anything, however, Ivar spoke up, kicking the crimson-clad corpse at his feet. "So, does anyone know who these pathetic examples of assassins were?" he asked sharply, glaring down at the body in what looked to be disgust. But why would he be disgusted?

The Imperial Blade shook his head. "We think they may be part of some cult, but beyond that, we don't know."

"Well, lovely." Ivar sighed. He glanced up at the Blades. "You're running from what have to be the worst assassins ever, and you don't even know who they are or why they want the Emperor dead? Some guards you are."

The Blade's eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you mean, worst assassins?" he asked.

"Well, think about it," Ivar said. "Their armor and weapons are magically bound to their bodies. Just cast a simple dispel on them and they'd be defenseless. And they just attacked head-on, giving us time to prepare. If it weren't for their numbers, we would have outmatched them easily. A _smart_ assassin would have been alone and shot the Emperor with an arrow while still on the ledge, perhaps while wearing some sort of enchanted jewelry that prevents them from being noticed. He would have been dead before you realized what had happened." Ivar knelt down next to the body and tugged at the hood, ignoring the stares of disbelief and distrust from the blades. "But I don't think they were going for the smart route. They're fanatics, mad with zeal. They'd eagerly die for a chance to fulfill whatever purpose their cult serves... and that purpose seems to be offing your Emperor."

Rosemonde was equal parts impressed and disturbed. She was impressed that he had managed to figure all of that out, no matter how obvious it seemed in hindsight. She was also disturbed because of how casually he spoke of killing and assassination. She was starting to get a very clear idea of why he had been thrown in prison.

"That doesn't explain how they knew we were here," the Imperial pointed out.

Ivar shrugged. "Maybe they magicked it out?"

_Magic doesn't work that way_, Rosemonde thought.

The Redguard Blade spoke up. "Well, it's too late to go back now. We need to get you out of here, Sire." As he walked over to the door, he glanced back at Ivar and Rosemonde. "Stay here, prisoners. Don't try to follow us."

Rosemonde stared at him, shocked. "But-"

Ivar elbowed her in the ribs before she could finish, glancing at her with an expression that clearly stated _shut-up-now-please_ before turning the the Emperor and his Blades and waving them off.

As she watched them leave, Rosemonde felt more than a twinge of disbelief. She glared at Ivar. "How are you supposed to get out of here now?"

"How am _I_ supposed to get out here? What about you? Don't you plan on leaving?" Ivar asked, raising a fair eyebrow.

"No," Rosemonde said matter-of-factly. "Leaving the cell in the first place was a stupid idea. I'm going back."

"Why?" Ivar leaned against a broken pillar, his green gaze unwavering. "What's up there that's so much better than being free?"

"You don't know me. You don't know what I did. Trust me, I _deserve_ to be in that cell."

"No one deserves to be in a cell, Rose." Ivar replied.

Rosemonde stared at him. Did he not realize...?

But he had a point. As much as Rosemonde deserved to be in that cell, she would be lying if she said she enjoyed it in there. And maybe, if she followed Ivar out of here, she'd be able to start anew. She wouldn't be able to fully put her past behind her, no, but maybe she'd be able to at least try to live a normal life, as if what she had done never happened.

It was shamefully appealing. "All right," she said. "But that still doesn't explain how we're going to get out of here."

Ivar pushed himself away from the pillar and approached the wall, running a hand across it. "There are always secret entrances in ruins like these," he said. "Special glowing buttons, pressure plates... ah-ha!" he exclaimed, stopping. "Or a cavern behind a worn-down, wall! Now, we just need to find a way to break it down..."

"I can take care of that. You might want to move, though."

Ivar look surprised, but moved to the side regardless. Rosemonde took a deep breath, and turned inward, drawing upon all the magicka she could spare. Concentrating, she hit the wall with as much telekinetic energy as she could muster. The wall all but exploded, and she had to duck out of the way to avoid being hit in the head by a chunk of stone.

"By the Unholy Matron!" Ivar exclaimed, jumping back. "What sort of magic was _that?_"

"Telekinetic magic," Rosemonde responded, falling to her knees and exhaling. That spell had taken a significant toll on her energy. "I'm a mystic. That sort of thing is my specialty."

"Blowing things apart is a mystic's _specialty_? I thought you lot were all about the detecting life, trapping souls, walking on the surface of water, that sort of magic!"

Rosemonde glared up at him. "Walking on water is an _alterer's_ forte," she said, getting to her feet. Granted, she was no slouch in alteration magic, but she had always found that particular spell to be a bit pointless. Who would possibly need to walk on water? "Don't expect that sort of thing from me too often. It takes a lot of energy to pull that sort of thing off."

Ivar peered into the natural cavern that greeted them. "That shouldn't be necessary," he said, walking into the cavern and looking around. "Hm..."

Rosemonde didn't follow. Doubt still lingered at the back of her mind. It felt _wrong_. It was wrong, of course. She was breaking out of prison.

"Ha!" she heard Ivar exclaim. She turned to see him prying a rather old-looking bow and quiver of arrows from the hands of a long-dead corpse that could barely be called a skeleton. "Excellent," the Bosmer exclaimed, grinning. "With luck, we should be able to get out of these caverns with relatively little difficulty."

Rosemonde raised a skeptical eyebrow. "The only thing down here are rats, right? We should be fine."

Ivar laughed. "Oh, trust me, Rose. If we're near the sewers like I think we are, there's things far more dangerous than rats in these caves."

* * *

_Goblins!_ The caves were full of damned _goblins_! Rosemonde gritted her teeth and reminded herself to kill Ivar later.

The goblin witch screeched at her, a ball of lightning forming in its deformed claws. Rosemonde barely had time to cast a shield spell before the lightning hit her. While the shield did absorb most of the spell, she didn't have the magicka to block it completely. A dull numbness traveled up her arms, and she fell back, crying out as the back of her skull hit a nearby stalagmite. Her shield remained, but faded. The goblin readied another spell.

Before it could finish casting, though, there was a small _shhhnk_ sound, and the goblin fell, an arrow sticking out of its throat.

"Nice job being the distraction," Ivar snapped, climbing out of the pit in the middle of the cavern room. "Did they not teach you a single destructive spell in that Arcane University of yours? Not a single fireball? _Really_?" He struggled to his feet, brushing off his clothes.

"They wanted to teach me, but I was a lot more interested in the subtler magics," Rosemonde explained. wincing as she got to her feet. She felt a little worn down from that spell. Protective spells required a lot of magicka. Of course, hitting her head on that rock may have had something to do with it.

Rosemonde knelt next to the goblin witch's corpse, mentally gagging at the smell it gave off. She grabbed its gnarled, carved staff from up off the floor, running an eye over the corpse to make sure it wasn't going to come back to life and bite her. "I never really thought I'd need much in the way of natural destructive spells. I had a staff of fire commissioned right after I joined the Guild." She examined the goblin's staff. The carvings were actually tally marks. If Rosemonde had to guess, they tallied how many kills the goblin had claimed. She didn't want to know what sort of kills. "I'd wager this staff isn't as good as that one, but not many would be."

"Hmm." Ivar turned and started walking further into the caverns. Rosemonde followed, leaning against the staff for support. "You know," Ivar said in an almost insultingly casual tone, "you never did tell me what you did to end up in prison."

Rosemonde glared at the back of his head. "I thought I made it clear that I didn't want to talk about it," she snapped. "Whatever happened to it being my prerogative?"

"Well, I just want to make sure you're not a dangerous _spoon__ thief_ or something like that, you know? I don't want to be traveling with such a dangerous criminal."

_You're one to talk_. "It's not that simple," Rosemonde said. "You wouldn't understand."

Ivar turned to face her, a slight smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. "You'd be surprised what I can understand," he said. "Come on. These caverns can't go on forever."

* * *

It wasn't long before they reached the man-made ruins again. The air was fresher there. They had to be nearing a way out of there soon. Of course, nothing could ever be so easy.

The two of them rounded a corner and came across a ledge that dropped into a large ruin. Nothing too terribly out of the ordinary. "Do you think we'll be out of here soon?" Rosemonde asked, taking a couple hesitant steps towards the ledge.

"Shh!" Ivar hissed, grabbing her shoulder. "I hear something."

"A goblin?"

"No. Get in the shadows and stay still."

Rosemonde was about to object when she heard a voice that belonged to neither her nor Ivar.

"We should find a defensible spot and wait there with the Emperor until help arrives."

She recognized that voice. That voice was the voice of the Imperial Blade.

They had somehow crossed paths with the Emperor and his guards again? How?

It was official. This _had_ to be a dream.

* * *

**A/N - Reviews and constructive criticism is much appreciated.  
**


	4. Destiny

**A/N - Sorry for the wait, guys, I was distracted by awesome fanfiction. And Robot Unicorn Attack. And Prequel (which is a really great webcomic that you should go read now right now). :| This chapter's also pretty long as well, but it's pretty similar to the last version of this. But (hopefully) better.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

* * *

"Say very, very quiet," Ivar murmured in Rosemonde's ear. "If they know we're here, they're going to be none too happy."

"Why would they?" she hissed back. "We fought by their side. They know we're not the enemy."

"I wasn't talking about the Emperor's Blades."

_What_? Rosemonde stared at him in shock. She noticed that his gaze wasn't focused on the Emperor as she had previously believed, but the ledge across from them. She could see a sinister-looking figure moving in the shadows beyond the ledge. "I guess they followed your advice," she muttered.

"Quiet, not," Ivar murmured, pulling an arrow from his quiver. He watched the shadows alertly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The figure sitting on the ledge moved closer, light from the hole in the ceiling shining on his face, revealing himself to be one of the assassins from back near the prisons. Rosemonde immediately move forward, gripping the goblin staff tighter, but Ivar was quicker. He nocked the arrow, drew it back, and let it fly. There was a faint _shnk_, and the assassin buckled over, falling off the ledge and to the ground below. "I'm still the better assassin," he said smugly, a proud grin forming on his face.

To say the Blades had not reacted well to the corpse falling from seemingly nowhere would have been an understatement. Of course, they weren't the only ones who had reacted less than positively. As soon as the first assassin fell, several others had appeared from similarly nowhere, leaping off the ledge and charging towards the Emperor. The Blades, luckily, managed to hold them off.

There was a spark of magic in the air. Destructive magic, to be precise. Rosemonde blinked, cursing very strongly under her breath. She saw an assassin standing a few feet away from the others. Unlike the others, he didn't have a weapon or armor. But he did have magic, and was currently using it to conjure up a large ball of pure lightning. The Blades likely wouldn't be able to counteract it if it were to be cast.

But she could. "Oh no you _don't_!" she growled. Concentrating her magicka, she blasted the assassin with a dispel. The spell in his hands fizzled and died, and he stumbled backwards, looking around wildly for whoever had done it. Rosemonde acted quickly. She pointed the goblin staff at him, letting her magicka flow through the gnarled wood and coalesce at the end, causing it to spark with its own destructive energy. She release the spell, and an bolt of black lightning arced through the air and hit him square in the chest. He fell to the ground, twitching for a few seconds before finally falling still.

"Nice job," Ivar said.

"Thank you."

Meanwhile, the Blades had finished off the other assassins. The Imperial Blade was looking up at the ledge she and Ivar were standing on, his sword still drawn. They were still half hidden by the shadows, though, and he didn't seem to recognize them. "Whoever you are, come on down," he called up.

Was the man _insane_? He had his sword drawn, and he expected them to just hop on down?

Ivar shrugged. "As you wish," he said. He stepped forward, running an analytic gaze over the ledge before jumping own. It didn't look to be as far a jump as Rosemonde had originally assumed, and Ivar landed lithely on his feet. "A thank you would be just lovely, by the way. After all, if it weren't for me," he said. "Well, partially me. You can thank Rose for that." He gestured up at Rosemonde. "Come on, Rosie, the Blades want to thank you for your heroic deeds."

"Is saying 'Rosemonde' so hard?" she sighed, hesitating for a brief moment before climbing down. Really, it was only two syllables.

The Imperial Blade's gaze held more than a hint of suspicion. "How did you get here?" he demanded. "How do we know you're not with the assassins?"

Ivar threw up his hands in exasperation. "Typical. Just _typical_. We make ourselves known by killing the people who want you dead, subsequently alerting you to their presence and _saving_ your pretentious hides, and here you are assuming that we're with them. I repeat: _typical_."

Rosemonde had never wanted to punch someone this badly before.

"That doesn't explain how you managed to find us," the Blade snapped. "And trust me, if it weren't for you saving the emperor's life, I'd gut you right hear and-"

"_Glenroy_," the emperor said, his voice stern. Rosemonde jumped slightly. That was the voice of an emperor. Not of the world-weary man that had passed through her cell seeking refuge from assassins. It held authority in it, a type of authority that made Rosemonde instantly fight the urge to bend knee to him.

It would have looked incredibly silly, and the last thing she needed was to give Ivar something more to prod her about.

"They are not with the assassins," the Emperor continued. "They can help us." His gazed focused on Ivar, whose only response was a sharp glare. "They _must_ help us."

"As you wish, sire," Glenroy said, sheathing his blade. He shot Ivar a scathing look before turning and walking back to the Emperor's side. Rosemonde suppressed a smirk.

The Emperor beckoned to Ivar. "Come closer. I would prefer not to shout."

Ivar didn't budge. Rosemonde promptly pushed him forward with the butt of her staff. He let out a cry of shock as he stumbled forward. "All right, all right! There's no reason to get pushy!" he snapped, walking forward towards the Emperor.

Rosemonde bit her tongue to keep from saying something particularly nasty, settling for a quick roll of her eyes. She leaned against the nearest pillar, tugging at the edge of her shirt. The fabric was quite uncomfortable against her skin, and seemed like to was going to fall apart at any minute. When she got out of here, she'd have to find some better clothes.

If she got out of here. There was no guarantee that they wouldn't all be killed by mad cultists mere steps away from freedom.

"Is he always like this?"

Rosemonde looked up to see the Redguard blade standing in front of her, his gaze fixed pointedly on Ivar. Rosemonde shrugged in response, forcing her discomfort to the back of her mind. "I don't know him all that well, but from what I've seen? Yes, it's usually like this. What about yours?" She nodded her head towards Glenroy. "Is _he_ always like this?"

The Redguard shrugged. "Nah. He's just upset with himself that he didn't notice the assassins sooner. Not that I blame him. Emperor's eyes and ears and we get our asses saved by a pair of criminals. Er, no offense, of course."

"None taken," Rosemonde shrugged. "I wouldn't have noticed it either, if it weren't for Ivar." She shifted, kicking idly at a small piece of rubble. "What is it exactly that the Blades do?"

"We're the Emperor's bodyguards. Our job is to get him out of situations like this. Although," he conceded, glancing over at the bodies of the assassins, "things are not exactly going according to plan. The name's Baurus, by the way."

He held out a gauntlet-clad hand. Rosemonde hesitated a moment before shaking it, smiling slightly. "Rosemonde."

"So how exactly did you end up in prison?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest. "The elf I can understand. I've never met an innocent man with that much knowledge of how to kill someone, so he's damn lucky the Emperor trusts him. You don't look like a killer, though. You a thief?"

_Oh, how wrong you are_. Rosemonde bit her lip, trying to think up a suitable answer. "I did a thing," she said. "The city guard didn't like it, and I ended up jailed." She decidedly left out the part where she had all but thrown herself at the guards _demanding_ that they put her in prison in the first place.

Baurus chuckled. "All right, if that's how it's going to be. I trust you not to stick a knife in our backs at the last minute, in either case." He glanced at the goblin staff. "Or zap us. Nice work with that mage, by the way. I'm not sure how we would have been able to block that in time."

"I do my best." Rosemonde glanced over at the Emperor and Ivar. They were speaking in low, hushed tones, too low for Rosemonde to hear. Ivar looked like he was about to punch something. Did he really not care for the Emperor that much? Why? He had said nothing particularly unkind, and...

She remembered his reaction to being told about his "destiny." Oh.

The Emperor and Ivar had finished talking, and Ivar stormed off deeper into the ruins without another word. "He looked upset," Baurus remarked.

_Front page in the Black Horse Courier: Water is wet, the sky is blue, and Ivar is an asshole._ She was surprised at how bitter her thoughts were. She didn't feel any animosity towards Baurus, so...

No. She was pissed at _Ivar_. Damn it all to Oblivion, would a simple bit of common courtesy _kill_ the man?

"We leaving?" Baurus called over to Glenroy. The Imperial Blade nodded. "Good. I'm getting a bad feeling about this place." He turned back to Rosemonde. "Listen, you're a mage, right? Can you create some sort of light so we can see better down here, make sure we don't run into some sort of ambush? Our last torch went out a while back."

Rosemonde realized with a start that it _was_ rather dark in there. She had just gotten used to it, from the cell and the caverns and whatnot. "Well, I'm not an illusionist, so I can't exactly summon some magelight, but I think I can do this..." She concentrated, letting some of her magicka flow into the staff. It began to crackled and spark at the top, creating a small, compact ball of electricity at the top that cast a cold glow into the caverns. "Just don't touch it. I can't guarantee you won't get shocked."

Baurus looked at the light with an impressed look on his face. "That works," he said. "Come on. We'll get left behind if we just stand here."

Rosemonde smirked. "Yes, that would be bad."

* * *

"Hold on. I don't like this. Let me take a look."

Rosemonde watched as Glenroy began scouting the room ahead of them. She took a couple steps toward Ivar, who still looked irate. "What did the Emperor talk to you about?" she asked. "Or can you not say?"

Ivar shrugged, not looking at her. "He just talking to me about how he was going to die and how he followed the path of the stars, or whatever. Oh, and more horseshit about how it's my destiny to help, the light of Akatosh is in my face, it was all very bothersome."

"Why?" Rosemonde had a hunch, but she wanted to be sure.

Ivar glared at her. "Why?" he repeated incredulously, his voice low and fierce. "I don't like people dictating who I am and what I do. The only orders I take are orders from the Dark Brothers. Not the Emperor. Not his bodyguards. My only loyalty is towards my family."

Rosemonde didn't imagine that he didn't mean the people who raised him. "Would it kill you to at least pretend to be nice?"

"No, but it might kill something _else_," Ivar growled.

Before Rosemonde could think of a response, Glenroy's voice split through the air. "_Damn it!_" Rosemonde whirled around to see the Blade running up the steps, swearing colorfully under his breath. "The gate to the sewer's locked," he explained, slightly breathless.

"What?" Baurus exclaimed. "That can't be right. Who did it?"

Glenroy shook his head. "Not sure. Could have been an assassin. Could have been a goblin, for all I know. There's a side passage, though. It may lead out."

"Worth a try," Baurus said. "Come on, Sire. We need to get out of here before the assassins find us again."

Rosemonde and Ivar shared a worried glance as they followed the Emperor and the Blades through the room and to the passageway. Rosemonde had never seen a goblin lock a gate. And she'd seen more than a few goblins in her lifetime.

"Damn!" Glenroy repeated, staring at the small room the passage led to. "A dead end."

"What should we do now, sir?" Baurus asked.

_Clang._ The sound of a gate swinging open made Rosemonde jump, the light of her staff dying out leaving the room only dimly lit by the light streaming in through the ceiling. "It's an ambush," she mumured.

Glenroy gritted his teeth. "Wait here, Sire," he said, drawing his sword and running out into the main room.

"Bosmer, you know how assassins think. come see if you can't take a few of them out," Baurus ordered. "Rosemonde, stay here. Guard the Emperor with your life." Rosemonde nodded in response, and she watched Baurus and Ivar follow after Glenroy. Only a few moments passed before the sounds of battle filled the air, punctuated only by Rosemonde's shallow, broken breathing. She gripped the staff tightly. They were cornered. Trapped like rats in a cage. A dark, stone cage.

There was a cry of pain, and someone fell in the darkness. Rosemonde's heart lurched. Who was it? Glenroy? Baurus? Ivar? She didn't have time to find out who, as an assassin ran towards her, brandishing her mace. She jumped back and blasted him with lightning from the staff. She could feel the wood crack underneath her grip. The assassin fell just as the staff crumbled. "No!" she exclaimed. "No, no no! Not now, not now, please!"

"Take this."

Rosemonde whirled around. The Emperor was standing there, stern-faced as he pushed something into the palm of her hand. She stared down at it. It was the large amulet he had been wearing earlier. She looked up at him, confused "What...?"

He smiled sadly. "My guards are strong and true, but not even the Blades can stand up to the power that rises. The Prince of Destruction awakes, born anew in blood and fire. These cutthroats that seek my life are but his mortal pawns." He eyes darkened. "Take the Amulet. Bring it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son."

"Your last what?"

Find my son, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

What happened next was too quick for Rosemonde to react. The wall behind the Emperor opened up. She cried out a warning. He didn't turn, didn't speak, only closed his eyes as the blade of the assassin's dagger sank into his spine. And then Emperor Uriel Septim VII fell to the floor, dead.

"Stranger," the assassin snarled, "you chose a very bad day to meddle with the affairs of Septims."

Rosemonde acted out of sheer instinct, her thoughts still hollow from shock. She dove out of the way of the assassin's blade, blasting him with telekinetic energy. He fell back, but quickly got up again. Rosemonde back up against the wall, hitting him with another telekinetic blast. This one was weaker, and only staggered him. He breath caught in her throat. _Stendarr, have mercy!_

There was a familiar _shhhnk_, and Rosemonde let out a sigh of guilty relief as the assassin slumped to the floor, an arrow sticking out of his back. Then she caught sight of the Emperor's body. Weary even in death, his violet robe stained with _blood_-

She wasn't sure how she ended up on the floor, crying. Then Ivar was there, hands on her shoulders, talking to her. "Rosemonde, calm down. Rosemonde, listen to me, I know it looks bad, but crying won't do you any good, okay? Rosemonde!"

"He came in through the wall... I couldn't stop him..."

"I know. I saw the passageway."

"The Emperor... he's..."

"Yes. Rosemonde, calm down, please, you're going to hurt yourself and what good will that do anybody?

Rosemonde forced herself to stop crying. He was right. Crying would get her nowhere. She looked over at the body again, biting her tongue and ignoring the blood as best she could.

Baurus was kneeling next to the Emperor's body, an horrified look on his face as he took in the sight before us. "Talos preserve us..." he said quietly. "We've failed. _I've_ failed. The Blades are supposed to protect the Emperor, and now he and all his heirs are _dead_." His eye's flicked the Emperor's throat, then to Rosemonde. "The Amulet. The Amulet of Kings, where is it?"

Rosemonde opened her hand, letting the Amulet fall. Ivar deftly caught it before it hit the floor. "He gave it to me," she whispered. "Said I had to take it to Jauffre."

"Jauffre?" Baurus asked. "That makes sense, Jauffre is the Grandmaster... did he give you a specific reason why?"

"He said..." Rosemonde hesitated. "He said that there was another son."

"What," Ivar said.

Baurus's brow furrowed. "Nothing I ever heard about, but Jauffre would be the one to know. He's the Grandmaster of the Blades, not that you'd know it if you met him in the streets. He lives as a monk in Weynon Priory, up near Chorrol." He got to his feet, shaking slightly. "You need to get that Amulet to him right away. Forget about anything else. If that amulet falls into the wrong hands we're dead, especially if there's another Septim still alive. The Emperor trusted you-" he glanced at Ivar, and Rosemonde knew instantly what he meant "-don't let him down."

Rosemonde didn't understand. She didn't want to understand. But she was more than happy to make up for letting the Emperor die right in front of her eyes. "Fine," she said. "We'll get to Amulet to Jauffre. How do we get out of here?"

Baurus gestured toward the main room. "The gate leading to the sewers is open now. If you go through them you should be able to get out easily." His expressions darkened. "We were so close..."

"What will you do?" Rosemonde asked.

"I'll stay here to guard the Emperor's body. You two should go. There might be more on the way."

Rosemonde nodded. She grabbed the amulet from Ivar's hands, forced herself to her feet, and started to walk away, pausing only to send a final glance toward the Emperor's body.

She had failed.

She wasn't going to fail again.

* * *

"Gah!" Rosemonde exclaimed as she fell out of the sewers and onto the warn shore of Lake Rumare. The sun was burning at her eyes, which were still so used to the darkness. "Son of a _bitch_!"

"Language," Ivar said, following. He didn't seem to have the same trouble she was having. "What's wrong with you? Never seen the sunlight before?"

"Shut up!" she snapped, struggled to her feet. She blinked and looked around as her vision focused. "We need to find one of the main roads and get to Chorrol," she said. "We might want to stop by the Imperial cities for food and clothes, first."

"'We?'"

Rosemonde turned to face Ivar. "Yes, we."

Ivar laughed. "I think you misunderstand, Rosie. I'm not going to deliver the Amulet. That's your job."

Rosemonde stared at him. "What?"

"Like I said," he said, turning around. "I don't follow the word of the Emperor. Not even his dying wish. Maybe I'll see you around. I hope I don't have to kill you."

And with that, he vanished.

Rosemonde blinked, looking around. He was gone. No, he wasn't gone. He probably just had some sort of invisibility spell. It fit his line of work. "Fine, then," she snapped. "I'll do it myself."

She turned and started walking towards the Imperial city, Amulet of Kings in hand.

* * *

**A/N - Last time I stay up past midnight to write a chapter.  
**

**Reviews and constructive criticism much appreciated.  
**


	5. City

**A/N - A really short chapter. Sorry. I moved some stuff around and added a scene that wasn't in there last time. Why? Because reasons.**

**Ailkaro - Thank you! I'm trying to make this a very character-based story, so giving Rosemonde and Ivar as much personality as I can is a goal. I also tried to flesh out Baurus and Glenroy a bit more. Those guys need more love.  
**

**melliemellie - Don't worry. I have every intention of finishing it this time. And I'm hoping the banter between the two will be better, in fact. Then again, most of the banter involves Ivar, and anything with Ivar in it is great fun to write.  
**

**harahi24 - Thank you! It's nice to know my writing's improved so much!  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

* * *

The to say the Imperial city was large would be like saying slaughterfish had a tendency to bite. The capital city of Tamriel was the largest in Cyrodiil, sitting proud atop an island in the middle of Lake Rumare. The largest part of the city was split into six districts, in a manner not unlike the spokes of a wheel. To the north lay the Imperial Prison and the sewers Rosemonde and Ivar had just escaped from. To the southwest was the waterfront, where boats docked and thieves lurked. And to the southeast lay the Arcane University. Rosemonde took great care to avoid that.

She instead went to the Market District. It was closest to the prison, and had a cheap inn where she could sleep. The sun may have been still high in the sky, but she was tired. She couldn't remember the last time she had a good, restful sleep, and exhaustion was starting to weigh against the back of her mind.

She sold what little she had found in the ruins at the Copious Coinpurse, ignoring the Bosmer's apparent jumpiness. She had also gotten some new clothes, and walked out into the streets wearing a threadbare green shirt, a pair of loose-fitting black pants, and comfortable leather boots that provided relief to her blistered, calloused feet. She had also tied her dark hair back into a messy knot to keep it out of her eyes.

She pocketed what little money she had in the coinpurse she had acquired. She could feel the Amulet of Kings inside the purse, weighing heavily against her thigh. But it was more than just the weight of the amulet. It was the weight of the responsibility that came with it.

Rosemonde wasn't sure if she cared much for that responsibility. Gritting her teeth, she pushed those thoughts out of her head and made her way through the bustling streets. She kept her head low so as not to be recognized. She didn't need to worry about some of the citizens, but if one of the guards that had been there that night saw her, she would be through back in jail or worse, and the amulet would likely never reach its intended target.

She rounded a corner, noticing a couple signs handing from the large stone building next to her. One said _A Fighting Chance_, which was nearly the exact opposite of what she needed. But the other one said, in large emblazoned letters, _Merchant's Inn_. Good. She sped up slightly, glancing around. People were glancing at her as they passed, but apart from that she wasn't drawing any attention. Even better. She reached the inn and pushed the door open with her shoulders, fishing a few coins out of her coinpurse as she did.

The inn proprietor, a balding Imperial man, looked up from the paper on the counter that he was reading as she walked in. "Ah, hello," he said. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a room," Rosemonde said. "Some of your cheapest drink, too." She needed a drink.

The publican's brow furrowed. "It's a bit early to be getting a room, but you do look pretty tired," he remarked. "I'd lay off the ale, though, if I were you. Don't want you stumbling around drunk in broad daylight, now would we?" He chuckled.

Rosemonde glared at him. "I can hold my ale," she said evenly. She had a surprising tolerance for alcohol, and was quite capable of drinking a fair few of her colleagues under the table. _Former colleagues_, she reminded herself. Either way, it was a bit annoying when people assumed her for a lightweight. The common reactions were "But you're so _small_ for such a heavy drinker!" or "Mages don't drink!" It was tiresome.

The publican shrugged "All right. I ain't one to say no to perfectly good coin, in any case. Ten septims for food and a bed."

Rosemonde slapped the appropriate amount of coins onto the counter. The publican quickly grabbed them. "It's the first door on the left. You'll find food and ale up there already. Don't worry, it's fresh," he added. "I put it up there barely an hour ago."

Rosemonde nodded, stifling a yawn. "Thank you," she said, forcing a smile. By Stendarr, she was tired.

"No problem, ma'am."

Rosemonde turned and walked up the steps, a protective hand around the coinpurse. She reached the top floor, found the first door on the left, and pushed it open, stumbling inside and sitting down with a very firm _whumph_ on the bed. There was a bottle of wine on the night table next to the bed, and she grabbed it, pulling out the cork and taking a long drink. She knew she was going to regret this in the morning, but damned if it wasn't worth it.

Yawning again, she leaned against the headboard, put the bottle back on the table, and pulled out the Amulet of Kings so as to get a better look at it. It was large, large enough to barely fit in her palm. The ruby in the center seemed to flicker with a strange, powerful magic. Curiosity piqued, Rosemonde tentatively tried to move it with what little magicka she had left.

The Amulet immediately started glowing and trembling, burning against her palm. "Ah!" she exclaimed, dropping it on the bedspread. "Son of a _bitch_!" She nursed her wounded hand, glowering at the amulet. "Was that really called for?" she growled. The Amulet didn't react.

Rosemonde closed her eyes. _Lovely_, she thought, _I'm talking to a necklace._

It wasn't the craziest thing she'd ever done, but it certainly wasn't the sanest. She really needed some sleep.

She reached out with her good hand, tentatively poking the Amulet. It was cool. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she grabbed it and stuffed it back in her coinpurse. "And stay there," she snapped. She stretched out on the bed, throwing a final glance at the bottle of wine on the table. _I guess I really don't need to get drunk tonight_.

She fell asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.

* * *

_That night in Cheydinhal  
_

* * *

Ivar stared at the boarded-up door of the seemingly abandoned. "Well, that's just fantastic," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. Just _how_ was he supposed to get into the sanctuary discreetly when he couldn't even _open the damned door? _Sighing, he took a few steps closer. Perhaps if he examined the door, he could find a way to get in that wouldn't draw the unwanted attention of the city guards. Bribing the count only got you so far. And while it was nighttime, the streets barely lit by the light of the stars, the guards were always ever-alert. It was more than a bit irksome.

Though, quite a couple guards had passed him by, and had apparently decided to ignore the suspicious Bosmer in the black leather armor. Bribes would only get one so far, but they did have their benefits. He ran a thumb over the hilt of the silver dagger strapped to his hilt. He had stolen his equipment from the Imperial Prison before heading to Cheydinhal. He wasn't about to go just let it rot in an evidence chest, now, was he?

Sighing, he grabbed one of the boards blocking the door and started pulling, bracing a foot against the wall. It wouldn't budge. He had to admit, he had a grudging respect for whoever and boarded the door up. Of course, the respect was overshadowed by a barely controllable urge to stab someone.

His gaze flitted to the window. Breaking it would surely draw attention, yes, but it was the only option he had. Maybe the guard would assume an adolescent vandal had committed the crime. There were certainly enough of them running about, setting shrubbery on fire and whatnot.

He picked up a large nearby rock, taking a quick moment to run an analytic gaze over the window. If he hit right there... He brought the rock down on the glass. It shattered easily, leaving a relatively sizable hole. He could get through that, yeah. He dropped the rock and started to climb through.

It wasn't quite as big as he'd originally thought. A sharp edge dug into his elbow, leaving a deep cut. He cried out and grabbed at it, realizing his mistake only when he was already falling forward into the house, unable to catch himself.

He landed face-first on the floor.

"Well," he muttered, getting to his feet and clutching at his elbow. "It could be worse. I could be dead."

Though, if Ivar's prediction of Vicente's reaction to his failure was in any way true, he may have to hold off on that optimism.

* * *

**A/N - *shrug* Like I said. Really short chapter. I just wanted to get a chapter up quickly to make up for the long wait for the last one.  
**

**Reviews and construction criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	6. Jauffre

**A/N - Sorry about the long wait. So, this chapter's going to be longer than it was last time. Because of added scenes. Because reasons. *Shrug* Well, last chapter was pretty short, so this should balance it out. Maybe. Not sure. I don't actually remember the word count for last chapter.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

* * *

Ivar knew one thing for certain. There was nothing more terrifying that a disappointed vampire.

Vicente Valtieri wouldn't eat him, no. He put the Brotherhood over his own hunger, as he had said when they had first met. But there was always that small, paralyzing fear at the back of Ivar's mind. The cold glare that Vicente was shooting him didn't exactly help matters, of course. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm still having trouble believing you could get caught so _easily_, dear Brother," Vicente said. "Don't you have your invisibility spell to prevent this exact thing from happening?"

"I got cocky, all right?" Ivar growled. "The Market District is poorly guarded at best. I've broken into that exact same building before, without any enchantments or daedric lockpicks. I didn't think it would be much of a challenge." He leaned back against the wall. "I can still fulfill this contract, Vicente. Let me try again, and I-"

Vicente raised a hand. "No," he said. "The guards will know of your involvement, and I do not want unsanctioned blood spilled in the name of the Night Mother." He took a couple steps forward. "I have another assignment for you, instead. One more suited for your particular... talents."

* * *

_The Twenty-Eighth of Last Seed,_ _3E433_

* * *

When Rosemonde awoke, the barest hint of scarlet sunlight poured in through the window. She wasn't sure exactly how long she had slept or what time it was. She figured it had to have been past midnight, though, judging by the loud snores she could hear in the room across from hers. Her head hurt, though whether that from the stress caused by the previous day'ss events or by the alcohol last night she didn't know. It was likely even a mixture of both. Groaning slightly, she sat up, rubbing her forehead. "Kill me now," she muttered to no one in particular, pushing herself out of bed. She left her room and started to walk down the stairs, yawning as she did.

The publican was fast asleep at the counter, drooling on the copy of _The Black Horse Courier_ that he had been reading. Rosemonde bit her lip to stifle a laugh as she passed him by. She didn't want to wake him. He might start asking questions, which was the last thing she wanted. She opened the door as quietly as she could, and slipped outside. She kept her head low for fear of recognition.

It took her a while to make her way through the streets and out of the city. She was familiar with the city's tall buildings and winding streets, but everything was so very large it took a while to get anywhere. Her jumping into the shadows every time a guard passed by didn't exactly help matters.

She did eventually manage to get outside the city walls, though, and found herself passing by a stable. She recognized this stable, from reputation if nothing else. People were apprehensive about leaving their horses in the care of the orcish stable hand, as they had a tendency to go missing. Rosemonde glanced around. The orc was nowhere to be found. All she saw were, well, horses.

One in particular stood out, though. A chestnut mare was restlessly pacing around the corral, pausing every so often to shake her head and snort in an almost derisive manner at the fence keeping her enclosed. Rosemonde didn't have to be a stable hand to realize that the horse wanted out.

An idea flitted through her mind. It was dangerous, crazy, and very much illegal. She didn't want to end up back in prison again.

Or did she?

All of Rosemonde's thoughts came crashing down.

She wasn't in that cell for no good reason. She had _killed_ a man. She had spilled his blood and broken his bones, and here she was trying to pretend it had never happened, that she _deserved_ to be out of prison. That she was capable and worthy of starting a new life, of putting her past behind her as if it had never occurred.

She froze in the middle of the road, forcing back tears. She couldn't break down. Not now. She needed to get the Amulet of Kings to Jauffre. _Then_ she could figure out just she was doing. And she wanted to get the Amulet to Jauffre as soon as possible, which meant she had two options. She could run all the way to Chorrol. Impossible. She didn't have the stamina, and Chorrol was hours away.

Which left her with horse theft. Not an ideal option, but it was better than walking. She glanced behind her. The gate guard had fallen fast asleep, snoring loud enough to wake the dead in Bravil. She let out a small sigh of relief before approaching the stable.

The mare's ears pricked up as Rosemonde approached. The two of them stared at each other for a long time, in stiff silence. Her breath caught in her throat, Rosemonde eventually reached out towards the horse. _Plea__se don't wake the guard, please don't wake the guard, please don't wake the guard..._

The horse regarded her for a few moments, and then leaned out and started sniffing her fingers. Seemingly satisfied, the mare stepped away from the gate, watching her expectantly, as if to say, _go on, open it, I won't bite._

So Rosemonde opened it, a strange smile on her face as she did. She felt almost _elated_ at what she was about to do. She mentally slapped herself. There would be no getting excited over breaking the law. Not tonight. Now any night. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, stroking the mare's mane. "You want to be out of this corral, don't you, girl?" The mare snorted, and Rosemonde smiled weakly. "Good girl. Come on. We're going to to Chorrol."

Take great care not to make to much noise, Rosemonde turned to the stables, finding exactly what she needed within moments. It didn't take her long to get the saddle and the reins on the horse. "I know you don't know me very well, girl," she murmured, pulling herself onto the horse's back. "But you want to get out and stretch your legs, and I want to get to Chorrol. I really think we can help each other here."

The horse didn't respond. Of course she didn't. She was a horse. Rosemonde sighed. "I'm going to take that as a yes," Rosemonde said. "That, or you don't understand what I'm saying. Either way... forward, I guess."

Now _that_ was an order the mare understand. She trotted forward, out of the stable and down the road towards the large bridge spanning the Lake Rumare. The Lake was very pretty in the early morning, Rosemonde noted. The light of the dawn had turned it a deep rich orange, as if it were on fire. She had to smile at such a sight.

"Go on, girl," she repeated, shooting a final glance back at the guard. Still asleep, thank Stendarr. "Let's go to Chorrol."

* * *

Rosemonde and the mare traveled for the rest of the morning and a fair chunk of the afternoon, stopping occasionally to rest. When they finally reach Chorrol, the sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow onto every leaf on every tree.

Weynon Priory was a relatively large priory, all things considered. It made sense, of course, what with it being so close to the city.

Rosemonde slid off the mare's back. "Good girl!" she exclaimed, patting her mane. "Thank you! Come on, now, then." She grabbed the mare's reins and began to gently tug her towards the stables.

As soon as the mare realized what was going on, she dug her hooves into the dirt, whinnying in protest.

"I know you don't like it, girl, but you've gotta get in the stables. It'll just be for a few minutes, all right? Then we can leave again and we can go wherever we want." That wasn't entirely true. Rosemonde would never be able to go within twenty feet of a Guild Hall ever again. But perhaps they could find a quiet village near the lake. She could become a farmer's hand, if needed. That sounded like a nice idea.

But first, the Amulet. "Listen, I promise. Just five minutes, all right?" Rosemonde pleaded.

The mare flicked her ear, and reluctantly allowed herself to be led into the stables. "Good girl," Rosemonde said. "Like I said, just five minutes." She patted the horse's man one last time before turning to the Prory, closing the stable door behind her. "Just five more minutes." She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince at this point: her or the horse.

She pushed open the priory door, once against feeling the weight of the Amulet against her thigh. As she walked in, a man in a black robe looked up at her, brow furrowed. "Yes? Can I help you?" he asked.

"I, um..." Rosemonde hesitated, wringing her hands. "I'm looking for Jauffre," she said. "It's important." She wasn't sure whether this man knew if Jauffre was a Blade, or was a Blade himself, or was just a monk, but she wasn't about to take any chances.

The man blinked, seeming a little taken back. "Of course. He's upstairs reading, go right up ahead."

"T-Thank you." Rosemonde turned and hurried up the stairs. She had noticed the look that the monk had given her, though. It had been a mix between confusion and suspicion, and it brought on a realization that left a hollow pit in her stomach. She was a complete stranger to these people, and she was going to just march over to Jauffre and drop the Amulet of Kings on his desk?

_Why don't I think these things through_? Rosemonde thought. Well, it was too late now. Swallowing her panick, she kept moving forward, reaching the upper floor. A pale, balding Breton man was sitting at a desk on the far side of the room, engrossed in the book in front of him. She cleared her throat, and he looked up with a start. "Are you Jauffre?"

"Yes. What do you need."

Rosemonde took a deep breath, trying to force her panic out of her mind. It didn't work, and the words came tumbling out of her mouth. "My name's Rosemonde and I was there when the Emperor died and he gave me the Amulet of Kings and told me to take it to you because you were the Grandmaster and knew where to find his last son and-"

"Stop." Jauffre raised a hand, his brow furrowing in confusion. "_You_ have the Amulet of Kings?"

"Er. Yes?"

"This cannot be. Only the Emperor is permitted to handle the Amulet. Let me see it."

_Gladly_. Rosemonde reached into her coinpurse and pulled out the Amulet, all but throwing it at Jauffre. He caught it with reflexes far quicker than Rosemonde had expected, and began turning it over in his hands, examining it closely. "By the Nine..." he murmured. "This _is_ the Amulet of Kings." He looked up at her. "Who are you? How did you get this? What do you know of the Emperor's death?"

"I _told_ you," Rosemonde said. "I was there when he died. The secret entrance he was using to escape the city went through my prison cell. I... I sort of followed." She didn't mention Ivar. She didn't need to mention him. He had made it _very_ clear where his priorities were. "The assassins were there, the ones that he was fleeing from. Just before they killed him, he gave me the Amulet, and said to take it to you. He mentioned a Prince of Destruction, said to find his last son and... and 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion.'"

Jauffre didn't speak. _He doesn't believe me. Of course he doesn't believe_ m-

"As strange as your story sounds, I believe you."

Rosemonde was taken aback. "W-what?" she stammered.

"Why else would you have brought the Amulet to me?" Jauffre said. "Anyone else would have tried to sell it, or have dropped it right into the wrong hands. You didn't, and I'm grateful."

"Oh." Rosemonde smiled nervously. "Thank you." She focused on the Amulet. "When the Emperor said to close shut the jaws of Oblivion... what did he mean?"

Jauffre shook his head. "His meaning is unclear to me as well. He was almost certainly speaking of the demon world of Oblivion. The Prince of Destruction he speaks of is none other than Mehrunes Dagon." His brow furrowed. "But the mortal world is protected from Oblivion by magical barriers."

Rosemonde knew about Oblivion. The sixteen Daedric princes controlled their own spheres of Oblvion, each wildly different from one another. She also knew that they were nigh unreachable. "But if that's the case, how can Oblivion harm us?"

"I'm not sure. Only the Emperors truly understand the meaning behind the coronation." Jauffre ran a light thumb along the edge of the Amulet. "The Amulet of Kings is ancient. Saint Alessia herself received it from the gods. When a new Emperor is crowned, he uses the Amulet to light the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One. With the Emperor dead, and no new heir crowned, the Dragonfires will be dark for the first time in centuries."

Rosemonde didn't like the sound of that. "So that's where the Emperor's son comes in, right?"

Jauffre nodded. "I am one of the very few who know who he really is. Many years ago, I served as a captain of the Blades. One night, Emperor Uriel called me up to his room, where a baby boy lay sleeping in a basket. He told me to deliver the child somewhere safe."

"And this child is...?"

"Yes. The Emperor never directly told me, but I knew the boy was his son. From time to time he would ask me about him. Now, it seems that this illegitimate son is the heir to the Septim Throne."

_Well, better an illegitimate son on the throne than whatever danger the Emperor saw, right?_ "Where can I find him?" Rosemonde asked, before she could stop herself.

"His name is Martin," Jauffre said. "He lives in Kvatch as a priest of Akatosh." He stood up, gripping the Amulet tight in his hands. "I shall keep the Amulet here. You must go to Kvatch at once, and bring Martin here. If the enemy knows of his existence, as seems likely... he is in terrible danger."

Rosemonde nodded. "Of course," she said.

"Good. Now go. We must waste no time."

Rosemonde turned away and left, her heart pounding against her chest and her thoughts blurred. It was only when she was standing outside, closing the Priory door shut behind her, that she realized that she had just sort of volunteered herself to go and fetch the Emperor's son.

She groaned. _Why don't I think these things through?_

* * *

**A/N - I have no idea what happened at the ending. It just sort of happened.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	7. Hackdirt

**A/N - I still love this quest. I don't care what anyone thinks, this quest was the boss. Best quest. I would have finished this chapter earlier, but remember when I said my life had been mostly sorted out?  
**

**Yeah. I lied. I think I'm better now, though. Just a bit of an existential crisis, is all. But I'm not going to let that get in the way of this. Promise. It just may mean a bit of a longer wait between chapters, is all.  
**

**hajnica - Oh, thank you! I've never actually had a review in another language before. I feel unusually accomplished. ^_^  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

Ivar wondered if he'd be able to stop at Anvil after he was done with his job.

After all, Anvil and Kvatch were fairly close to each other, and he didn't plan on staying in Kvatch long. Just long enough to get the job done. If he lingered around too long, he might cause suspicion. And in any case, he wanted to visit his parents. It had been a few months.

But as he walked along the road, he also began to wonder if that would be a good idea. Going straight from killing a man to visiting his family did seem a little crass when put together, no matter how natural to him they seemed. Perhaps it would be best if he waited...

But damn, did he ever miss his family. His parents, not the family he had at the Sanctuary. It was difficult keeping the two separate, especially when he knew just exactly how much his parents would disapprove if they ever figured out exactly what his professions of choice was, law abiding citizens that they were.

But _then again_, his love for his parents was what drove him to make his first kill, the kill that had resulted in Lucien Lachance standing in his bedroom. They were too closely intertwined for him to separate them. Besides, it wasn't like going to his parents right after killing a man was an inherently wrong thing, was it?

_Bah._ Ivar was getting confused. He hated being confused. In a fit of anger, he threw his dagger at the nearest tree. It pierced through the park and sank into the tree. Her glared at it for a few moments before pulling it out. Emotions couldn't come into play here. What he was planning on doing in Kvatch was business. Visiting the family afterward was personal life.

There was no question about that. He pushed his feelings aside, his thoughts now cold and analytic. The question was, exactly how was he going to get about his personal business in Kvatch? He was a damn good assassin, yes, but killing a priest could be a very tricky job...

Good thing for him, then, that he enjoyed a challenge.

* * *

Rosemonde didn't like leaving the mare back at the Priory; after all, she had promised five minutes. But the only way to get to Kvatch with a horse would be to double back and return to the city, and then taking a different road through Skingrad. That would take far too long. She instead planned on heading straight through the Imperial Reserve. But before she could even think of going to Kvatch, she needed to stop at Chorrol for food and drink. She hadn't eaten in quite a while, as her growling stomach was quick to remind her.

The city of Chorrol was quite peaceful and beautiful. Out of all the cities that Rosemonde had gone to while she was getting her recommendations for the University, Chorrol had been her favorite. She had especially been fond of sitting under the shade Great Oak and thinking about the day's events. She wanted to go do that again. She needed to just sit down and think. But she couldn't, at least not at the Oak. It was too close to the Mage's Guild, and she didn't need someone recognizing her, not when she had such an important task ahead of her.

Blocking all such thoughts out of her mind, she headed straight to the local trade shop, Northern Goods and Trade. It was close to the gate, which was quite a relief. She could easily get in and get out without wasting any more time than she needed to. She pushed open the door, the sweet smell of freshly-cut cloth and warm bread welcoming her.

The shopkeeper, an Argonian by the name of Seed-Neeus, has been pacing the length of the store when Rosemonde walked it. At the sound of the door being open, she jumped whirled around, eyes wide. Rosemonde winced. "I'm sorry, did I scare you?" she asked, shifting from one foot to the other. She had never actually talked to the Argonian before, though she had met her daughter Dar-Ma briefly.

Seed-Neeus blinked. At least, Rosemonde thought she blinked. She had never quite figured out how Argonian eyelids worked. "I-I'm fine," Seed-Neeus said. "I'm just a little... distracted. Please, take a look around. You, ah, you're sure to find something to suit your needs here."

Rosemonde stood still for a moment, before walking around the shop, taking in the various goods resting on tables. She kept glancing up at Seed-Neeus, who had returned to her distraught pacing. Rosemonde stopped in front of a table of fresh bread, turning to face her. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Seed-Neeus hesitated. "It's just... it's my daughter," she explained. "She's gone missing. I sent her to make a delivery to a small village south of here a couple days ago, but she hasn't come back. I'm worried about her."

Dar-ma was missing? That couldn't be right. Dar-Ma had never really struck Rosemonde as the kind to go wandering off into the unknown, which meant that the inly real possibilities were... less than pleasant. "Where exactly is the village?" Rosemonde asked. "I plan on heading south anyways. Perhaps I could stop by there, check to see if anyone there knows where she is?"

"You'd do that?" Seed-Neeus exclaimed. "I... Thank you! I don't know what to say..."

Rosemonde lifted a hand. "Just tell me what I need to know."

"She was supposed to make a delivery to Etira Moslin in Hackdirt three days ago," Seed-Neeus explained. "It's in the forests, not too far away from here, and she should know the way. She also has a paint horse, Blossom. She'd never willingly abandon that horse, so if you find it..."

"Chances are I'll find Dar-Ma."

Seed-Neeus nodded. "I'm afraid I don't have any way to properly repay you for your kindness, but..."

Rosemonde shook her head. "I'm not asking for any sort of payment. I just want to help." She grabbed a loaf of bread of the table. "Speaking of payment, how much do one of these cost?"

"For you? Nothing. Just get my Dar-ma home safely. Please."

"Don't worry. I will."

* * *

Rosemonde had never heard of Hackdirt before. It was a very small settlement located a clearing in the forests south of Chorrol. It was also very run-down. The husks of burnt-out buildings dotted the village, long since abandoned. Idly chewing on a piece of bread, Rosemonde wondered why they hadn't been rebuilt, or at least cleared away. The most noticeable building was the small chapel overlooking the settlement. A few people were moving through the village square, not looking at her or even acknowledging.

Perhaps one of them would know where Dar-ma was. She stepped toward a tall man in a huntsman's vest. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm looking for an Argonian. Her name is Dar-Ma. She came here to make a delivery to Etira Moslin?"

The Imperial turned around, glaring at her fiercely. Rosemonde blinked and took a step back. There was something... off about his face, his eyes. They were too large and too round for her comfort. "Haven't seen an Argonian around these parts," he snapped. "Now go away. Your kind doesn't belong here, outsider." He turned and stormed off toward the chapel, leaving Rosemonde standing there, thoroughly confused.

She sighed, tugging at a loose lock of hair. So he wasn't going to help. She should probably find this Etira woman. She looked around for anything helpful, until her gaze fell upon a sign that said in rough, bold letters, "Moslin's Dry Goods." Rosemonde approached it, pushing the door open. The room inside smelled of dust. A pale-haired woman stood at a counter on the far. As Rosemonde walked into the store, the woman spoke, not looking up from the papers she was examining. "I told you, Vlanhonder, it won't be done until tonight."

"Er," Rosemonde said, "what?"

The woman, who Rosemonde assumed to be Etira Moslin, blinked and looked up. Her eyes were almost as large and round as those of the man in the square. "You're an outsider," she said, her voice suddenly cold. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"

"I'm looking for an Argonian lass named Dar-Ma," Rosemonde said, shifting nervously.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "I don't know any Dar-Ma. But if you're talking about that Argonian swindler from Chorrol, then let me tell you than I would like to know where she is as well. She never showed up. Tell me, how am I supposed to run a shop if I don't have any goods to sell?"

Rosemonde raised an eyebrow. "So you haven't seen her at all?"

"Are you deaf? I just said that. Now, are you going to buy something or not? Because if not, I want you to leave. I've got a business to run. I can't spend my whole day answering the questions of nosy outsiders."

Rosemonde shot her a glare before turning around. "Is there an inn I could stay at for the night?" she asked. "Just in case Dar-Ma shows up, you understand."

"My brother owns the local inn. You can talk to him about it. Out!"

Rosemonde left, thinking over the events that had just transpired. The woman had definitely been acting suspicious, there was no doubt about that. She was likely hiding something, but what was she hiding? Rosemonde started walking, looking down at the ground as she bit her lip and tried to figure out what was going on.

She didn't notice the horse until she nearly ran into it. Letting out a cry of shock, she jumped back. A paint horse stood there, looking very agitated. _Wait a minute_, she thought, approaching the horse again tentatively. It was wearing a saddle, which wouldn't have been all that notable, except for the single word carved into the leather.

_Blossom_.

Etira had been lying.

Rosemonde's first instinct was to run back into the store and demand to know what was going on. But Etira hadn't been honest with her before, so what reason would she have to be honest with her now? She'd probably say the horse was hers or something along those lines. Rosemonde would have to find information elsewhere.

She glanced over at the nearby burnt building. What was with those? Why did they exist? What had burned down half the buildings in the settlement, and why hadn't they been rebuilt? Taking a deep breath, Rosemonde clambered over a burnt wall, hitting the remains of the floor with a solid _thud_. She looked around. No one, it seemed, had been in here in a while. She took a few steps forward, looking around for any hint of what had caused this.

Something caught her eye. She turned to see a wooden trapdoor in the ground, it's rich new wood markedly different from the ash-stained husk of the house that surrounded it. She knelt next to it, tugging at the handle. Locked. She was going to have to break it open, then. She concentrated her energy, ready to cast the spell.

But then everything went numb. Her limbs refused to move anymore, and she collapse to the ground, barely able to breath. A paralysis spell? But who...

There was the sound of footsteps. Two pairs. "I told you to leave, outsider," a voice snapped. Rosemonde instantly recognized it as Etira Moslin's voice.

"Etira, do you really think this is a good idea? No one will really notice if one person goes missing around here, but two people and questions start getting asked. The Imperials start investigating." This voice was different, one she didn't recognized, male and laced with worry.

"All the more reason for this, then, isn't it, Jiv?" Etira snapped. "We can't have her going back and telling the guard about this, can we? Now help me get her down to the caves. The Brethren will deal with her."

There was a pause. Then Fire seared through Rosemonde's veins, giving where to blackness.

* * *

"Are you all right?"

Rosemonde blinked as the voice managed to pierce her clouded senses. Everything _hurt_. Moaning slightly, she sat up, rubbing the back of her head. Her fingers came across a large cut at the base of her scalp. "Oww," she muttered, casting a healing spell. She could feel the wound close up, but the paint didn't go away. It was then that she saw the bars.

He first thought, naturally, was that she was back in prison. She started to panic. _No!_ she thought. _No, I can't be in prison, I need to go find Martin, this can't be right, no no no no no..._

Then she realized that she wasn't in the prison. Not that her actual location made her feel much better. She was in some sort of large rectangular cage in an underground cavern, the only light being the dim glow given off by the torches on the wall. She could hear shuffling further in. Something... _somebody_... was moving around.

"I've tried finding a way out, but that door's locked tight," the voice continued. Rosemonde looked over at the speaker. A young Argonian woman sat at the opposite corner of the cage, arms wrapped around her knees, eying Rosemonde warily. "Dar-Ma?" she asked.

The Argonian nodded. "Yeah, I'm Dar-Ma. Aren't you that Breton who came to Chorrol looking for a recommendation from the Mages' Guild? I thought you looked familiar..."

"That's me," Rosemonde said. "Dar-Ma, what's going on here? Why do the villagers have us imprisoned down here?"

Dar-Ma nodded towards the shuffling. "It's those things," she said. "The villagers call them the Brethren. Part of their religion or something. I think... I think they're going to sacrifice us tonight?"

Religion? It was starting to sound more like a cult. "Well," Rosemonde said, getting to her feet, "we can't have that, can we?" She approached the door. Dar-Ma was right. It was locked tight. The bars were firmly welded to one another, with no signs of giving way. Any telekinesis she tried would likely backfire. "Hmm," she murmured. She was going to have to try something else.

She raised her voice. "Hey! You! In here!" she called out.

"What are you doing?" Dar-Ma hissed.

"Getting someone's attention. _Oi, fish-eyes! Come here and tell me what in the name of Oblivion is going on down here!_"

The shuffled stopped for a moment. When it resumed, a half-naked man came sauntering out of the shadows.

At least, Rosemonde thought it was a man. It looked mostly like a man, but it's walk was more akin to the shuffle of the undead, and it's eyes were just so _large_... It must have been one of the Brethren. A single key hung on on a string tied to the belt of its pants, alongside a gnarled club. "Outsider," it hissed. It's voice was rough and high-pitched, and so very unnatural. What had happened to this person?

"Tell me what's going on," Rosemonde responded, focusing her magicka. "Pretty please?"

The Brethren merely snarled in response, moving closer. Rosemonde waited until it was close enough, then released the spell. The key flew threw the air, the string snapping easily. The key fell straight into Rosemonde. The Brethren let out a cry of shock. Rosemonde's response was to hit it with a strong bolt of telekinetic energy. It flew back, hitting the far wall and falling to the floor. It wasn't dead, but it would be unconscious for a few minutes. Rosemonde fumbled with the keys, unlocking the door with a shaky hand. The cage door swung open with a loud _creaaak_. "Come on," she said, grabbing the Argonian's hand. "We need to find a way out before the others notice us." Indeed, she could hear shuffling deeper in the caverns. She didn't think she'd be able to fend them off for long. "But the trapdoor's locked, and..."

"It's not locked. Not with a key, anyway"

Rosemonde blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Didn't you notice?" Dar-ma said. "There was no lock. It's magically sealed. It can be opened from the inside, but not from the outside. The Brethren opened it when they brought you down here."

_How very convenient_. It must have been some sort of Alteration magic. "Well, that simplifies things," Rosemonde said. She shot a worried glance back at the caverns. "Come on. We can't waste any more time."

* * *

It was dark when they fled the settlement. There was no one outside. Rosemonde presumed they were in that chapel of theirs. Dar-Ma was clutching the reins of her horse and trembling from fear. "Are you all right?" Rosemonde asked.

Dar-Ma nodded. "I'll be fine. I just... what did they want to sacrifice us for?"

Rosemonde shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "And I really don't want to know. What matters is that we got away from those sick bastards before they could do anything to us." She placed a hand on Dar-Ma's shoulder. "I'm not going to be going back to Chorrol. I've got important business down south. Do you think you can find your own way back?"

Dar-Ma nodded. "I know the way," she said, "and with Blossom I can move fast enough so they don't catch us. I... Thank you. For saving me."

Rosemonde shrugged. "It was no problem. Just... do me a favor and stay away from any strange cultist settlements, all right?"

* * *

Kvatch. Ivar scoffed. It was the only town in Cyrodiil that was both unique and completely unimpressive at the same time. It was the only city outside of the Imperial City with an Arena, yes, and it may have been the home of the Chapel of Akatosh, but it was so... _average_. It didn't have a Fighters' Guild hall, and the Mages' Guild here didn't specialize in any particular school, instead preferring to specialize in _enchantments_. Ivar scoffed. What sort of guild specialized in enchantments?

Smirking, he moved forward, taking in the city with a wary eye. Whatever he thought of Kvatch didn't matter. He was here to kill a priest and then go home.

He stopped in front of the Chapel of Akatosh. _Is it sacrilegious to kill a man in a chapel?_ Ivar mused, placing a wary hand on his dagger. He was invisible, so no guard would see him, but he was still wary. He had once ran into a guard-captain in Bravil with a particular proficiency in life detection spells. He didn't want that to happen again.

He moved forward, reaching for the door. It was late at night. Anyone in there would likely be sleeping.

Then a crack of thunder split the air. It was loud, louder than any thunder Ivar had ever heard. He let out a cry of shock and stumbled backwards, landing solidly on his arse. Confused, he looked up at the sky.

It had turned crimson.

* * *

**A/N - It just got real.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	8. Impossibilities

**A/N - This chapter is relatively short, probably shorter than it was last time, so...  
**

**Ailkaro: I'm not sure which is more awkward: The accidental self-insertion, or failing at continuity so hard I can't even keep it straight within one scene. Probably the latter. Thank you for pointing those out for me! Consider them fixed.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

_The Twenty-Ninth of Last Seed, 3E433_

* * *

It was early morning when Rosemonde finally reached the Gold Road. She had barely slept the night before, only pausing to take a short rest in a small copse. But she couldn't stop. Not for anything. She'd be able to sleep when she got to Kvatch. She could see the city off in the distance. It sat atop a tall hill, looking over the Gold Coast like a weary old soldier.

Rosemonde had only been to Kvatch once, to get her recommendation from the guild hall there. The guild hall in Kvatch chose not to specialize in any of the spell schools, instead focusing on "the latent magical powers of enchanted objects," as the head mage there had put it. It had been ages ago, and Rosemonde was still sure that he had been using the word right. Her task to get her recommendation had been fairly simple. The head mage of Kvatch had a bit of an obsessions with Welkynd stones, and had told her to go into a nearby Ayleid ruin and gather as many of them as she could. It had been a rather menial task, and the ruin had been filled with zombies, of all things.

Rosemonde didn't much care for the Kvatch guild hall. But apart from that, she had loved Kvatch. It was warm and friendly, and quite interesting. It was the only city outside of the Imperial City that had an arena. She had never seen an arena battle, but it had always fascinated her in an odd way.

The the sound of twigs snapping in the brush next to the road snapped Rosemonde out of her reminiscing. She stopped. "Who's there?" she called out, looking around. The only answer was a quiet, panicked gasp. "I know you're there, so you might as well come out now," she sighed. Still nothing.

Sighing again, Rosemonde concentrated her magicka and cast a light life detection spell. She glanced in the direction of the noises. A bright purple glow pierced her vision, in the form of a small child. "Listen," she said, her voice softening as she knelt down on the roads. "I'm not going to hurt you, all right? I can see you."

There was a long pause. Then the child spoke, just as Rosemonde's spell faded and the violet glow disappeared.. "Are you a Daedra?" It was the voice of a young girl.

Rosemonde blinked. "Do I look like a Daedra to you?"

Another pause. "I guess not. You look too scrawny to be a Daedra. The bushes rustled, and a young Nord girl of about ten scrambled out into the road. Her skin was smeared with dirt, and her light brown hair was tangled and filled with leaves. In one hand she clutched a toy sword. The little girl eyed Rosemonde with a bit more suspicion than was healthy. "If you're not a Daedra, who are you?" she demanded.

Rosemonde smiled slightly. "My name's Rosemonde. I'm a Breton, not a daedra. Who are you?"

"I'm.. I'm Hjette."

"Well, then, Hjette," Rosemonde said, "why is a little girl like you asking about Daedra?"

"Because Aunt Sigrid said that it was Daedra that set Kvatch on fire."

Rosemonde's smile vanished. _What?_ No no no, that couldn't have been possible. That _shouldn't_ have been possible. She stared at the little girl. "What do you mean, 'set Kvatch on fire?'" she asked. _Please be some sort of child's game._ There was no way Kvatch could be on fire. She would have heard about it, wouldn't she?

Hjette hesitated. "Well, last night there was these big portal things. Aunt Sigrid called them gates to somewhere. Big creatures came out of the gate, along with a really big creature made of metal that set Kvatch on fire." She was trembling, clutching at her sword like it was the most important thing in the world. "The guards got some of us out of the city, but others didn't make it." She looked down at the road. "My mother's still in there."

Rosemonde didn't know what to say. She sat there, stunned, and it was a while before finding her voice again. "Hjette," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, "did a man get out of the city? A priest, by the name of Martin?"

Hjette shook her head. "Brother Martin was taking people to the chapel. I think that's where Mother is."

_If she's still alive._ The unsaid words hung heavy in the air. Hjette spoke. "What do you want to find Martin? Is he a friend of yours?"

"I-In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Brother's Martin's nice." Hjette paused, biting her lip. "Do you wanna come to the camp?" she asked. "Maybe Aunt Sigrid can help you. I should be getting back, anyways. I was just so scared, so I... I guess running away wasn't the best idea, huh?"

"There have been better ideas, yes." Rosemonde wasn't eager to talk to Sigrid, but it was her only real option at the moment, and it was better than nothing. Especially since nothing would likely lead to the death of the one person she needed to keep alive at all costs. "All right, then," she said, standing up. "Let's go talk to Aunt Sigrid, then."

* * *

The camp had been set up along the side of the road winding up the hill. A feeling of dread at settling over it, almost visibly weighing against the makeshift tents and bedrolls. Rosemonde looked around, taken in the despair that greeted her. Why had this happened? Why to Kvatch, of all places?

She had a sneaking suspicion.

"Aunt Sigrid!" Hjette cried out, running over to a tall, blond Nord woman in a blue dress. "Aunt Sigrid!"

The woman breathed a sigh of relief. "Hjette, there you are!" she said. "I was so worried. Why did you run off?"

"I'm sorry," Hjette said. "I was just really scared that the Daedra were going to come down. And I was so scared for Mother..."

"It's all right, we're safe, the guards are keeping the Daedra away," Sigrid said softly, placing a fair hand on the girl's cheek. "We're safe down here. And your mother is safe in the chapel. I know you're worried about her, but you just got separated, all right?"

"D'you really think so?"

Sigrid smiled. It was clearly fake. "I know so, Hjette."

"Okay." Hjette glanced over at Rosemonde, and her expression brightened somewhat. "Aunt Sigrid, there's a lady here who came to see Brother Martin. She's definitely not a Daedra. I checked."

"What do you... Rosemonde!" Sigrid exclaimed. She leapt to her feet, pulling Hjette away. "What are you doing here?" Her demeanor had gone cold.

Rosemonde raised her hands defensively. "Listen, Sigrid, you have no reason to trust me and I understand that."

"_That's_ an understatement!"

"But," Rosemonde continued, "Let me assure you that I am not here to cause anyone any harm. I'm here to help, if I can."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?" Sigrid snapped. She covered Hjette's ears. "You committed _necromancy_, Rosemonde. A good man died because of you!"

Rosemonde's breath caught in her throat. _I know._ Forcing back tears, she replied, "Sigrid, I never intended to harm anyone."

"But you did."

_And if I could, I would fix everything. The necromancy, his death, everything. _"I know. But I'm here to help. I'm here to find a man, and it's very important."

Hjette had wriggled free from Sigrid's grip. "You came to find Brother Martin!" she said.

"Yes, exactly."

"Brother Martin was in the city," Sigrid said, her glare steely and cold. "He was helping people into the chapel. It's one of the strongest buildings in the city, save for the castle. If he's in anywhere, he's in there."

He could still be alive, then. A sigh of relief escaped from Rosemonde's lips. "Thank you, Sigrid," she said. She turned towards the road. She needed to get up to Kvatch as soon as possible, before something _else_ went wrong.

"Wait!"

Rosemonde glanced over her shoulder. Sigrid's expression had softened, and she seemed to be searching for the right thing to say. "Thank you," she said after a few moments. "For bringing Hjette back, I mean."

Rosemonde shrugged. "Like I said, I'm here to help, if I can." She turned back and kept moving, rubbing at the back of her head. She still felt a little sore from Hackdirt. Damned crazy cult town...

A horribly familiar voice sounded from off to her side as she walked. "Well, it's a pleasure to see _you _again. Except that it really isn't."

Rosemonde didn't need to turn around to know who was speaking. She knew that voice. It was low, harsh, and filled with more sarcasm than she had previously believed was possible. "Ivar!" she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Business," Ivar said. "What are you doing here?"

_Business?_ Rosemonde turned around, eying the blond Bosmer carefully. He was leaning against a nearby tree, fiddling with an ebony-handled lockpick. He was wearing leather armor that was as black as night with a silver dagger, and a slim bow and quiver of arrows was strapped to his back. His green eyes were slightly unfocused, staring down at the ground below. "I'm here to find someone. It's important. What sort of business?"

"What sort of business do you think?" Ivar shot back.

"...Who?"

Ivar shrugged, pushing himself away from the tree and stepping closer. "I guess there's no harm in telling you. It's not like I'll be able to finish up here. My mark here was a priest. Almost had him, too. Not that it matters much now. He's probably dead. What was his name... Oh! Yes. Martin. That was his name.

* * *

**A/N - What a tweest! Then again, it's not much of twist if it was in the last version of UH, is it?**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	9. Gate

**A/N - Obligatory infodump chapter time! Sorry for a bit of a wait on this one. I had a lazy day. No real excuse. Just laziness.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

Ivar regretted telling Rosemonde about his mark the moment her fist made contact with his face.

He fell back, landing firmly on the dirt of the road. "By the hypothetical arse of Sithis!" he snapped, rubbing his sore cheek. For someone as small and as scrawny as she was, the Breton packed a punch, he had to give her that. Not that it helped him much. He winced. That was going to leave a bruise in . "What was that for?"

The only response he got was a foot on his chest, pushing him down on his back. "Damn it, woman, could you at least _explain_ the sudden and uncharacteristic abuse?"

"You're here to kill Martin," she growled.

"Uh, well, not anymore. The whole 'Daedric invasion' sort of put a damper on _that_ plan, I'm afraid. Which is a right damn problem for me. I can't fail a job twice in a row, it will be horrible on my reputation." He raised an eyebrow. "Why do you care so much about the fate of one priest, anyways?" The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a smile. Her really shouldn't, especially when she looked like she was about to hit him again. But it was _so tempting_. "Is he your lover? I never figured you to be spoken for, but everyone has their surprises, I guess..."

He had never seen a woman go so red so quickly. It was quite funny. "No," she snapped. "He's a bit more important than that."

"Oh, really?" Ivar pushed Rosemonde's foot off his chest, causing her to stumble backwards. He sat up. "So what's so important about this man, anyhow?"

"He's..." He could see Rosemonde hesitating. A few moments of silence passed before she spoke again. "Ivar, Martin is the Emperor's son."

Ivar froze. No, that couldn't be. He had seen the priest, and he didn't exactly look like an emperor's son to him. _Though,_ he thought, _he did seem a little familiar..._ Looking back at his memories, he realized that the priest had bore an uncanny resemblance to the emperor. "Are you sure about this, Rosie?"

Rosemonde flinched at the nickname. "Yes," she said. "I talked to Jauffre, the man the Emperor wanted me to see. And what he said then is what I'm telling you now: _Martin is the Emperor's son_." She knelt down next to Ivar, her light hazel eyes flickering with magic. "I can't let you kill him, Ivar."

Ivar raised his hands defensively. "I'm an assassin, not an idiot," he said. "If this damned priest is so important to you, I'm not going to go after him. I'm not mad enough to risk being through off a cliff by an angry mystic." He blinked. "You know, you never struck me as the 'angry hero' type."

"I'm not a hero," Rosemonde said, standing up. "But someone's got to get the job done, and no one else seems to be stepping forward. So it might as well be me."

Ivar stood up, still a little shaky. He had just been overpowered by a scrawny Breton with no noticeable combat skills. His pride was quite wounded. He hadn't been this surprised since he heard that Vicente had a fatal allergy to garlic.

And he had been quite surprised to hear about Vicente's garlic allergy.

"So," he said, chasing after Rosemonde, "what do you plan to do?"

"I plan on getting Martin out of the city and to Weynon Priory, that's what." Rosemonde didn't stop in her stride.

"You don't even know if he survived," Ivar pointed out. "You don't even know what wholly happened here."

"I know enough."

"The testimony of a traumatized ten-year old is not enough knowledge!"

Rosemonde stopped. She turned to glare at him, folding her arms over her chest. "Then tell me what happened, Ivar. If you were here, then you can provide me 'enough knowledge.'"

Ivar took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "All right. They had some sort of seige weapon with them. A big giant metal thing that walked on its own and spat fire. It was what caused most of the damage in Kvatch. Sure, the Dremora and Clannfears helped, but it was mostly that thing. It took off the steeple of the church tower, so it was clearly capable of causing some damage. I got out before it went back to Oblivion, so I don't know how much damage it caused, but... I don't think anyone's left alive. Even if they had gotten to the chapel. That was where Martin was leading them." He sighed. "Well, I suppose that explains why they wanted to attack meager Kvatch in the first place."

Rosemonde didn't blink. "I don't care about that."

"You don't... What?"

"I don't care," Rosemonde repeated. "Even if what you say is true, even if Martin is dead and we have lost everything, I need to _try_." His gaze turned cold. "It's more than you did."

"What!" Ivar couldn't believe what he was hearing. _Is she blaming all of this death on me?_ "What was I supposed to do? If I had stayed in there, I would have burned with the city as well. You can't fault me for self-preservation."

"It's not just that, Ivar!" Rosemonde snapped, her voices reaching a dangerously noticeable volume. "You _left_, back at the sewers! The Emperor trusted you, he thought you could help, and the moment the opportunity presented itself you just le-"

Ivar placed a gloved hand over her mouth, ignoring her enraged glare. "Shh!" he hissed quietly. "Do you want the entire camp down there to hear you? Because I was under the impression that yelling such sensitive from a hilltop when facing surprisingly adept assassins and a horde of daedra was a _very bad idea_!"

Rosemonde raised a hand as if to slap him. He pulled his hand away and took a few steps backwards. He wanted to escape part of this with at least part of his face unbruised. "Besides," he said defensively, "the whole purpose of opportunities is to take them when they appear. Otherwise, they'd be useless. And I didn't want to have anything to do with the Emperor and what he wanted me to do."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like being told what to do," Ivar said. "Especially when it involves horseshit like 'destiny' and 'stars.'" He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was just not his day, was it? First he failed at killing someone, then the city he was in caught fire, and now, well, here he was. "You weren't there when that Emperor was talking to me," he said. "Well, you were, but you weren't. You were too busy talking to that Redguard, what's-his-name... Bearus?"

"Baurus."

He shrugged "Right now, it's the same thing. The problem was, that senile old bastard was telling me that Akatosh shone on my face and that the stars would guide me to greatness! I serve only the word of myself, Rosie. No one else tells me what to do."

Rosemonde's gaze hardened. Ivar was starting to get downright scared. "Well, I'm telling you now: Martin is off-limits. Do not kill him, do not attempt to kill him, do not even think about killing him." She turned away, her eyes focused on the road.

Ivar threw up his hands. "Is it some sort of debt?" he asked. "Is that it? You feel so indebted to the emperor and his bodyguards for getting you out of that stink-hole of a prison that you feel like you need to repay him in some manner."

"For someone so seemingly observant, you assume a lot of things that turn out to be false."

"Bah. There's a difference between being analytical and being savvy."

"Yes, and it's possible to be both. You, clearly, are not."

Ivar stopped in his tracks. "I am offended!" he exclaimed, feigning shock. "I could tell you everything I need to know about you in one minute or less."

Rosemonde looked up at him. "So tell me. Tell me who I am."

"Well," Ivar said, "you're tense. Hurt. You're walking with a slight limp, and you may not have even noticed it yourself. You been in a battle recently, or hurt. Second of all, you seem to have some sort of inferiority complex, mixed with a hero complex: you're too worthless to be the hero but you've got to do it anyway, am I right?" Ignoring her shocked expression, he continued. "I've seen you in battle - You throw everything you have at your enemies, not even bothering to conserve your magicka. A man can learn a lot about a person from they way they fight. You? You're wild, reckless, you don't think before you act. And don't think I don't rmember your little _episode_ after the Emperor died. You've got a thing against death, more than most people, even. Let me guess, death in the family, maybe a friend you cared for greatly?"

Rosemonde gaped at him. "How did you-"

"Just because one _can_ be analytical and savvy at the same time doesn't mean one has to," Ivar said, smirking. He was rather proud of himself. Half of that stuff he had just guessed, but from Rosemonde's reaction he was stunningly accurate. _Some people are just so easy to read._

Rosemonde sighed. "All right. You have a point. Answer me this, though: How does that help me?"

"What do you mean?"

"With the Daedra. With Martin. What you just told me doesn't help find back an atronach, you know." She started walking again, her steps shakier. Ivar had throw her off balance, and he felt an odd mix of pride and guilt at such an accomplishment.

"Ah, well, there's probably something I should mention about that."

"What?"

The two of them finally reached the top of the fill, and Rosemonde saw the "something" for herself. A huge fiery portal, at least twenty feet tall, all but completely blocking the entrance to the gate. As the two of the, watched, a clannfear came rushing out of the portal, charging without pause towards three men in Kvatch guard gear. It was cut down easily enough, but not before it managed to break through on of the barriers the guards had set up.

The Daedra had left one of their precious gates open.

Rosemonde recovered quickly, and ran off towards the men in uniform, Ivar following close behind. As competent as these guards seemed to be, there were still guards, and his instincts prevented him from going too close. Especially with Captain Savlian Matius right there.

When Matius noticed Rosemonde, he took a few steps forward, sheathing his sword. "Stand back, civilian," he said. "It's not safe here."

"I'm not a civilian," Rosemonde said. "My name's Rosemonde. I'm here to help. What can you tell me about what happened here?"

"We lost the damn city, that's what happened here!" Matius growled. He shook his head. "We were caught off guard. Everything happened too quickly... we were overwhelmed."

"No one could have expected something like this," Rosemonde said.

"With all do respect, miss, that doesn't make me feel any better," Matius said. "We couldn't even get everyone out. The Count and his men are trapped in the castle, and there are still some people holed up in the chapel."

Ivar saw a glimmer of hope flicker in Rosemonde's eyes, followed by determination. "Can we get to them?" she asked.

Matius let out a bitter laugh and gestured to the gate. "Even if we could get around that, there are still enough Daedra coming out that I don't want to risk any civilians getting hurt. That's probably why they left this gate open. I sent some men in to see if they could close it from the inside, but..."

Rosemonde was silent for a few moments, glancing between the gate and the guard captain. For a single instant Ivar could see the scared, confused Breton for the sewers. "I'm going in," she said.

_What?_

"What?" Matius exclaimed. "Are you mad? It'll mean your death!"

"I don't remember asking." Before anyone had a chance to object, Rosemonde turned and ran towards the Oblivion gate. Ivar watched with increasing interest as she stopped in front of the gate. The Breton reached out, touched it... and disappeared.

Ivar waited a few seconds, exchanging a glance with one of the guards. Nothing happened. "Well," he said, turning back towards the road, "it seems that I am no longer needed here. If you need someone who is partway competent, feel free to find me. I'll be back at the camp."

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**A/N - Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.**


	10. Deadlands

**A/N - Sorry for the long wait. There's really no excuse. GUESS WHO JUST GOT PAST A THOUSAND VIEWS? *points to self* This makes me ridiculously happy. I love you all in a completely non-creepy way. Also, today (the fourteenth as of this writing) is the one-month anniversary of this run of UH, and it's the tenth chapter to boot! And the biggest chapter. Awesome. On a lesser note, I fell asleep writing this chapter. Clearly I need to fix my sleep schedule.  
**

**Ailkaro - Thank you! :) Writing the Rosemonde/Ivar interaction was one of my favorite parts, especially Ivar's insta-analysis. And I'd wager you're right about the whole "not Skyrim, no reviews" thing. It's no big deal, though. Given, you know, a thousand views in a month, that's a lot better that it was last time, so it's not like no one's reading this.  
**

**Cathylove - Ha ha ha, thank you! :D Ivar's dialogue is easily one of my favorite parts of writing this. Loquacious snarky assassins are always fun.  
**

**Hakan Finnsson - D'aww, thank you. The mix of side/guild quests and main quests is actually what I'm going for, because let's be honest - who actually goes through only one questline at a time? ... Okay, I totally did that my first run through, but... And don't worry, Rosie wouldn't punch you. It's less Ivar calling her an annoying name and more, well, it's _Ivar_. She'd punch him for a Klondike bar.**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way****.**

* * *

Rosemonde had expected it to burn. She had expected fire and heat and everything expected of such a portal. She hadn't expected it to feel so... cold. Like ice was flowing through her veins instead of blood as she passed through the portal.

She fell to the ground, gasping for breath, her vision swimming. It was only then that the full reality of her choice hit her. "What. Was. I. _Thinking?_" she cried out between breaths, her voice ragged and trembling. She had just walked into an Oblivion gate, with no armor and no weapons with only her spells to protect her. She wanted to slap herself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

She got to her feet, looking around. Everything was red. The skies were nothing dark clouds, with red lines like rivers of blood cutting though each other. The terrain was rough and rocky, with the remnants of stony ruins and broken bridges littering the area and large claws made of black glass jutted out of the earth. In the distance, she could see a pair of twisted black towers. There was lava _everywhere_, and yet, there was no heat. Rubbing her arms too try to bring some warmth back to her body, she started forward down the path that winded through the area and led up to the towers. If the way to close the gate was anywhere, it would be there.

As she walked, Rosemonde worried. She worried about whether she would be able to close the gate. She worried about the people in the camp, about Hjette and Sigrid and Ivar. She worried about Martin's safety. If what Jauffre said was true, the fate of the Empire all revolved around one simple question: was Martin alive?

Perhaps that was a little dramatic. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm. She couldn't worry about that. Gate first, Martin later.

The sound of battle in the distance broke through Rosemonde's worrying and caught her attention. She blinked and ran forward, rounding a sharp corner to see an Imperial man in Kvatch guardsmen armor, desperately fighting against a dremora. The man was wounded, bleeding heavily from his leg and was barely able to block the Daedra's fierce attacks

Rosemonde froze for a few moments, unsure of how to act. Then, gathering her resolve, she concentrated as much telekinetic energy as should could and pushed the dremora as firmly as she could. The horned humanoid fell to the ground, confusion and shock appearing on his crimson features as he struggled to get up. He didn't have a chance to, though, before the guard's blade pierced his throat.

As the dremora lay on the ground, black blood gushing onto the ground, the guard turned to Rosemonde, stumbling and leaning against a nearby broken pillar for support. He looked to be in his late thirties, with black hair and a troubled expression. "Civilian!" he exclaimed, sheathing his sword. "What are you doing here? This is no place for you to be!"

"I noticed," Rosemonde said dryly. "I'm not a civilian, though. the captain sent me in to close the gate." It felt wrong telling such a bold-faced lie, but it sounded better than "I jumped into the Oblivion gate with no plan, no backup and no weapons because I'm a moron."

A brief glimpse of hope flickered in the man's eyes. "Then... Captain Matius and the others, they're still out there? Keeping those monsters from reaching the camp?" When Rosemonde nodded in response, the man let out a sigh of relief. "Thank the Divines!" He held out his hand. "My name's Ilend Vonius. I was one of the men Captain Matius sent in to try and close this thing."

Rosemonde eyed his hand for a few moments, and he dropped it. "Rosemonde Rousseau," she said. "What happened to the others?" She dreaded the answer.

Ilend's gaze darkened, and he shook his head. "The others... we were ambushed as soon as we went in. It was almost as if they knew we were going to jump in. We were herded to the bridge, picked off one by one... Menien and I managed to escape the bridge, but they caught him, took him up to the towers." He ran a hand down his face. "I... I tried to help them, tried to make sure they survived, but those _damned_ Daedra..."

"Wait," Rosemonde. "The towers, you said?"

Ilend nodded. "That was where I was heading before that... thing attacked me." He nodded to the now-still body of the Dremora.

Rosemonde couldn't help but feel relieved "That's incredibly convenient," she said, "because I headed towards the towers as well, and I could use someone at my back." She was loathe to admit it, but she had hoped that Ivar would follow her in. He had been a good fighter, with a keen eye and a quick blade. Of course, he hadn't. Really, she could expect no less.

Ilend ran a quick gaze over her. She was still wearing the rough olive vest and dark pants; hardly the sort of thing one would want to be wearing in Oblivion itself. "I'd say you look like you could use the help, but given how you helped with that Daedra back there..."

"I only have so much magicka."

Ilend shrugged. "Well, I can't exactly say no, can I? Any help is a welcome in here."

Rosemonde smiled slightly. "Well, then," she said. "We should get going. The captain's depending on us, after all."

* * *

"Where's Rosemonde?"

Ivar blinked, glancing at at the little Nord girl. _What was her name.. Hjette?_ She was standing next to him, gripping her toy sword, giving him a look that could only be described as a cross between a scowl and and a pout. If Ivar didn't hate children with a passion more fiery than the Oblivion gate, he might have found it adorable. As it stood now, though, he merely found it irritating. "She's in the gate."

Hjette seemed somewhat taken aback. "The Daedra's gate?"

_No, the gate to the potato farm._ "Yes," Ivar sighed, "the Daedra gate. She's going to try and close it to save Kvatch." Not that she was going to succeed, mind. Going into the depths of Oblivion fully armed was madness. Going in with only the clothes on one's back and a limited array of spells was just suicide.

"Why aren't you with her?" Hjette asked.

Ivar blinked. "What sort of question is that?"

The little girl shrugged. "Well, you two are friends, right?"

"Wrong."

"And friends help each other out," Hjette continued, ignoring him. "Besides, why wouldn't you go? You'd be helping people, saving them. I'd go, if I was old enough and had a _real_ sword." Hjette poked at the dirt with her wooden toy, brushing a lock of stray hair away from her dirt-smudged face. "Rosemonde's nice," she said.

"Rosemonde's stupid," Ivar growled, "chasing after impossibilities and hopeless causes."

There was a long pause. Then...

_THWACK!_

Hjette's wooden sword collided with the side of Ivar's head. He cried out in shock and jumped back, rubbing the spot where she had hit him. "You brat! What was that for?"

Hjette gave him a steely glare. "My mother isn't a hopeless cause, you jerk," she said coldly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Neither is Brother Martin, or Mister Selone, or Miss Valus, or..."

Ivar raised a hand, silencing her. "I get the picture, thank you. But even if I were to actually _care_, and let me assure you that I do not, what would you have me do, hmm? Go charging into the Oblivion gate, the cry of battle upon my lips as I join Rosemonde in a deadly battle against the tide of Daedra?"

"Yes!"

"Well, forget it. I have something that dead old Rosie lacks, and it's called self-preservation."

A pause.

_THWACK!_

"Gah!" Ivar exclaimed. "Stop _doing_ that!"

"Stop being so stupid, then!"

"_I'm_ not the stupid one here!" Ivar moved off of the stump he was sitting on, keeping an eye on Hjette. Wooden though it may be, that sword hurt. "Besides, I don't particularly care. I'm not from around here, if you haven't noticed. There's no one here I want to keep safe, save for myself, and there's certainly no one I would die for, here. If you care so much, you could go into the gate. I sure wouldn't be complaining."

...

_THWACK!_

* * *

"Are you sure this is the right tower?"

"It's our only option right now. And if it's not," Rosemonde said, "we'll find a way over to the other tower."

Ilend looked up, squinting. "Well, what about that bridge up there?" he asked, pointing.

Rosemonde glanced up to see a narrow bridge spanning between the two towers. It had to have been hundreds of feet up. She shuddered at the very thought. "Perhaps we could try to find an alternative before we try that?" she suggested. "And none of it will do us any good if we don't get into the tower first." She gestured at the door. It was tall, at least twice as tall as Ilend was, made of solid black stone. There was a crimson rune embossed into it, a rune that Rosemonde could not place, similar to the many smaller runes that ran along the edge of the door, repeating nearly endlessly.

"Right." Ilend drew his sword. "Move out of the way. I'm going to pry it open.

Rosemonde stepped back, allowing Ilend the necessary space to jammed the tip of his sword between the door and the twisted black frame and star pushing. Rosemonde sat down on the steps, letting her mind wander to other places.

As expected, it wandered to Brother Martin, and she began to fret. Even if he were to be alive. would he even agree to go with her? She actually quite doubted it; here she was, about to barge in on his already shattered life and drag him away before he could even think of picking up the pieces.

Besides, she could imagine how _that_ conversation would go.

_"You're the Emperor's son!"_

_"...What?"  
_

_"You need to come with me. You're in danger!"  
_

_"Explain yourself or leave me alone."  
_

_"...The Emperor told me to find you?"_

That conversation would likely end with her being pointedly ignored for the rest of her life as the Empire descended into chaos. Despite the grave matter at hand, though, Rosemonde had to repress a giggle. This whole situation did seem a bit silly, if one looked at it from a certain angle. A certain Ivar-ish angle.

There was the sound of stone grinding against stone, and Rosemonde was shocked out of her worries. "Hah!" Ilend exclaimed. Rosemonde looked up to see that he had managed to get the door partially open, and now was pulling it the rest of the way. "Come on, you damned Daedric... ha!" With a final shove, the door had given way, revealing the tower's interior. "Come on!" he said. "Quickly, before it's too late!"

Rosemonde was only all too eager to follow him inside. Hopping to her feet, she moved quickly, only stopping when she saw what lay past the black stone door.

They were standing in a relatively large round room. At least, it was sort of a room. There was no ceiling. I stretched high above, showing the doors and walkways above. Rosemonde felt a wave of dizziness. She would have assumed it was simply from the sight above, but her attention soon became focused on what was in front of her, instead. A tall beam of light shot up from a pool of what felt to her like some sort of liquid magicka, piercing through the center of the tower and reaching up until it could not be seen any more. It radiated some form of energy, causing a low vibrating Rosemonde's teeth, just underneath her eardrums.

It felt _strange_. Each different type of magic had a specific _feel_ to it. Destruction magic felt like crackling electricity, like a spark in the air. Restoration magic felt warm, like sunlight on a late spring day. And mysticism felt cold, constricting, as if an ice atronach had suddenly decided to become the hugging type. But this magic, this strange energy leaking from the light? She couldn't place it. It was strange, alien, and _wrong_.

She took a step forward, entranced by the energy. Before she could move any further, however, pain shot through her body.

No. Not pain. _Agony._ Searing agony. It was as if someone had lit her very blood on fire. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground, screaming. Screaming was all she _could_ do as her very life was sapped away. Through the fire, a single thought emerged: _magic_. Someone had cast a spell on her, damn it!

Rage joined the fire. She wanted to get up. She wanted to turn the person that had done this to ash. But she couldn't move.

Mingled with her screams were were the sounds of battle. Sword clashing against sword, arrows streaking throw the air-

Wait. Arrows? Ilend didn't have a bow, and if one of their attackers had a bow... this wasn't good. She wanted to get up, she tried to force herself to move, but her limbs refused to move.

Eventually, after what felt like an era, the pain began to fade, and life returned to her limbs. When she could finally find the strength to move, she struggled to her feet and turned around.

Ilend was wiping his sword free of dark blood, standing over the corpse of a dremora mage. A couple feet away, the corpse of another dremora lay on the ground, several slim silver arrows protruding from his chest. Rosemonde felt a little embarrassed as she got to her feet. Had she been that blinded by the beam of light that she hadn't been able to hear two Daedra sneaking up on her and Ilend? "What happened?" she asked. "How did I...?"

"You didn't watch your back is what happened," a sharp voice from behind her said. "You have a tendency not to do that. Case in point: right now."

Rosemonde whirled around. "Ivar!" she said. "What are you...?"

"You little friend with the wooden sword _convinced_ me to join you on this mad quest," Ivar growled. "Thank her when we get back. If we get back."

Ilend took a few cautious steps forward. "Who's this?" he asked warily.

"Someone who's willing to stand at your side and fight these monsters," Ivar said. "And as far as I'm concerned, that's all you need to know."

"I'm not letting you join us when I don't even know who you are!"

"Does it matter? I helped save your ass back there, that should count for something!"

"As much as I _appreciate_ your help, it wasn't _necessary._"

"Yes, that's why she was writing on the floor in agony and that dremora was about to stab you in the back!"

"Enough, please, both of you," Rosemonde sighed. "Ilend, he's a... acquaintance of mine. He's not going to try to betray us at the soonest opportunity." She shot a warning glare at Ivar, who had opened his mouth to object. "Ivar, shut up. If you're going to help, help. If not, there's no reason for you to stick around. Understand?"

Looking shocked, Ivar nodded silently.

"Good." Rosemonde turned away, her gaze focused on the corpse of the dremora mage. Its still hands clutched a gnarled and blackened staff. That must have been what hit her. She felt more than a hint of apprehensiveness as she approached the body, kneeling down. She took a deep breath and pried the staff from the Daedra's cold fingers. "There," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "Now I have something to defend myself with." It had been foolish to go into the gate without even the simplest of weapons. She didn't know how to swing a sword or shoot a bow, but she figured she could have at least tried to defend herself. One can't defend oneself with one's fists.

Then again, she rather prided herself on her ability to throw a punch...

She stood up, turning back to Ivar and Ilend. "Come on," she said. "This gate won't close itself."

* * *

"No."

"Come on, it's only a perilously thin bridge hundreds of feet above the ground, with nothing but death awaiting you if you take a wrong step."

Rosemonde fought down the rather primal urge to punch that stupid smirk off of Ivar's face. "I don't like heights. At all."

Ivar sighed. "How bad could it be? Daedra cross it all the time."

"Daedra generally don't fear _dying_, Ivar. And neither do crazy assassin Bosmer, it seems."

Ivar sighed. "Listen, Ilend and I will be right behind you. If you slip, we catch you. It's not like you're trying to jump blind from one tower to another alone. You've got something under your feet and people with you. Trust me?" His eyes glinted with intuition. "Or is it not me at all? Is it yourself that you don't trust?"

Rosemonde glared at him. Damn him and his keen senses. "Hold this," she told Ilend, tossing the daedric staff towards him. He caught it with ease. "You want me to cross the bridge?" she growled at Ivar. "Fine. I'll cross the bridge."

Without another word, she turned around and faced the bridge. _It's not _that_ thin_, she told herself. _You'll be fine._ She took a few shaky steps for ward, holding her arms out in front of her in case she fell. She had a firm footing, it was true, but she wanted to be sure.

"Ivar?" she asked, focusing her gaze anywhere but the ground below. "Why are you here?"

"I told you, that brat forced me to."

"You really jumped into an Oblivion gate just because Hjette told you to?"

"Well, why did you jump into the gate?" he asked.

She answered without a second thought. "Because it was the right thing to do."

There was a long pause. "Hjette... well, let's just say Hjette appealed to my better nature. With her fists."

Rosemonde couldn't help but let out a little laugh. Immediately she stumbled a bit, and was forced to pause to correct herself. "You got beat up by a ten-year old?"

"Shut up. She wields that toy sword of hers like a Grand Champion."

Rosemonde was so close to the other side. She reached forward and pulled herself through the doorway, letting out a breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She turned to face Ivar, grinning. "All right, fair enough. Sigrid had a little bit of training as a battlemage, so it makes sense that her niece would have a bit of training in the subject of warfare."

Ivar sighed as he followed her into the tower, Ilend close behind _him_. "Yeah, well, I've never much cared for battlemages, so I guess it evens out."

"Rousseau..." Ilend's tone was filled with caution, but Rosemonde ignored him. "You got a problem against battlemages?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"A bit, yeah," Ivar said. "I mean, either choose magic or choose combat. Choosing both just seems like cheating."

"Says the man who's clearly got a bit of illusion spells under his sleeve, Mister I-Can-Disappear-Without-A-Trace."

"Well, that's different, I mean..."

"Rousseau, look out!"

This time Rosemonde listened and whirled around, just in time to see a bolt of fire heading straight towards her. She dove to the floor just as Ivar danced to the side, both barely missing getting hit by the spell. "Damn!" she exclaimed. "Another dremora?"

"No, worse," Ivar deadpanned. "Flame atronach."

_Fuck!_ Rosemonde scrambled to her feet. "Ilend, staff!" she exclaimed. The guard wasted no time in tossing the staff over to her. As soon as she caught it, she whirled around and aimed it at the fiery female figure. She forced her magicka to flow through the staff, letting the tip glow a slight crimson. This staff was more difficult to use; it was alien, unfamiliar.

"Rosemonde, if you're gonna do something, do it now!" Ivar exclaimed.

"Working on it!" she shot back. She could feel her energy flow, the staff glowing bright and brighter...

Just as the atronach readied another fireball, she blasted it with the staff. Red destructive energy split the air, hitting the daedra square in the heart. It let out an earsplitting shriek, its spell dissipating in its hands.

Ivar wasted no time. He leaped forward and, in one swift move, drew his dagger and drove it into the chest of the atronach. The creature let out one last wail and disappeared. Ivar took a couple steps back, clutching at his gloved hands. "That hurts," he said, only a touch of annoyance in his voice.

Rosemonde raised an eyebrow. "You got burned after you stabbed an atronach and you're only response is a slightly bothers 'that hurts?'"

Before Ivar could respond, a scathing quip likely right on the tip of his tongue, a new voice sounded out. "Hello? Who's there?"

"Menien," Ilend murmured, eyes wide. "Menien!" He barged past Rosemonde and Ivar and up the walkway. "Menien, is that you?"

Rosemonde and Ivar exchanged a quick glance before following. At the top of the tower, under the open roof and crimson sky, was a cage. A worn and injured Imperial man stood in the cage, a large shiny burn wound stretching across his bare chest, his face pressed up against the bars of his prison. He was regarding the three of them with a shocked expression on his face. "Ilend?" he exclaimed. "What are you... I thought the daedra had gotten you!"

"You thought _I_ had died?" Ilend asked, gesturing to the cave. "Look at you! What did those bastards _do_ to you?"

Menien shook his head fiercely. "Don't worry about me," he said. "What matters is getting that damn gate close. And I know how. Heard a pair of those dremora talking. On the opposite tower, the tower you came from. The top of it. There's something called a Sigil Stone. If you remove that, it should close the gate.

"What about you?" Ilend shot back. "I'm not leaving without you, Menien!" He looked around frantically, presumably for some sort of release switch for the cage. Rosemonde looked to see if there was any lock that Ivar could theoretically pick. nothing.

"Don't bother; they sealed the damn thing with magic."

Rosemonde's response to _that_ was to blast the cage with a dispel. Nothing.

"I'm not leaving you here, Menien," Ilend said.

"I'm not giving you a choice," Menien said. "Go, now, before they realize that you know how to close the gate."

Ilend hesitated for a moment longer, before giving a curt nod and turning back, not looking at either Ivar or Rosemonde. Rosemonde shot a desperate glance at Menien. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Less apologizing, more gate-closing," Ivar hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her away.

As she was pulled back down to the bridge, she felt a wave of shame wash over her. She had come into this gate to save people. How was she to succeed at that when she couldn't save one person?

* * *

"Ivar, are you done thinking?" Rosemonde blasted the dremora mage with a dispel, feeling her knees growing weak as the magicka drained from her body. She couldn't hold this up for much longer. "I'm sure we could all use a good idea right about now!"

"I'd like to second that!" Ilend said, kicking a scamp off of the fleshing platform on which they stood.

"Hush, dearies, I'm busy," was Ivar's only response. He hadn't contributed a damn thing to this entire fight, just stood there and stared at the store intently, his brow furrowed as if in deep thought.

The Sigil Stone had what the beam had been connected to. A large black sphere, with thin orange lines crossing its surface, floating in the middle of the air with only unfamiliar magic holding it up. It had been several feet away from the platform, too far from any of them to reach.

The dremora mage had drawn its mace and was lunging towards Rosemonde. She pulled her fist back and punched the daedra in the nose. It staggered back, a dazed look coming to his face. She took the opportunity to hit him upside the head with her staff, sending him sprawling.

"Rosemonde." Ivar's voice was calm, cold, professional. "You wanted a good idea?"

"It's about damn time!" Rosemonde whirled around, and froze. A sly grin had appeared up Ivar's face, and his eyes glinted in a way she did not care for.

"Well, you're going to love this one!" Then he started running, straight towards the stone.

Rosemonde realized what he was going to do a second before he did it. "Are you mad?" she exclaimed.

Ivar either didn't hear her or ignored her. He jumped, soaring through the air, arms outstretched... and grabbed the stone.

He dangled for a few minutes, struggling to get a better grip. There was a sharp shudder, and the Stone - along with Ivar - fell.

Rosemonde lurched forward, but before she could do anything, before she could _say_ anything, a white light engulfed the room, everything shaking and coming apart. The fleshy platform beneath her feet gave way, and she fell too.

And then she was back in front of Kvatch. The Gate was gone. The crimson had given way to a dark gray, and rain was starting to fall from the sky. She stood there, frozen in place, unable to move, unable to think until a slight groan behind her made her turn.

Ivar was struggling to his feet, clutching the large stone in his hands. It was pulsing with a soft energy, and Rosemonde could feel the unfamiliar magic radiating from its core. "You..."

"I did it," Ivar said. He sounded as surprised as she felt. He let out a weak cough. "Rosemonde?"

"Yes?"

"I was wrong. That was a terrible idea. Don't ever let me do that again."

* * *

**A/N - Sorry for cutting it off a bit suddenly, but when I write 5k words for a single chapter, it's time for me to stop.  
**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	11. Martin

**A/N - This chapter. This chapter bugged me a bit last time, but I should be able to do it better this time. Key word being "should."  
**

**Alikaro - Aww, thank you! And gods, that paint typo had me giggling when I saw it. "After an era, the paint began to fade." At least it's long-lasting paint, I guess? I've fixed them up now, thanks for pointing them out. And don't feel sorry about the ask blog. A lot of it was OOC posts anyways, so there wasn't much to check out, and after a while I realized it just felt a bit _off_ having an askblog for my fanfiction characters. So it's no big deal, I assure you.**

**The Detective - Thank you! :) I will admit that I rushing the ending of the last chapter a bit, mostly because I wanted to say "I posted my tenth chapter on the one-month anniversary," because it seemed awesome to my admittedly sleep addled brain. And "hypothetical arse of Sithis" is still one of my favorite things I have ever written in the history of ever. Ivar gets 80% of all the best lines.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

Rosemonde sat in front of the fire, seething and clutching her wound. _Damn clannfear._

When she, Ivar and Ilend had closed the gate and appeared in front of Kvatch, the captain had been both shocked and ecstatic. "You closed the gate?" he had said. "I can't believe it! Now's our chance to launch a counter-attack and save anyone still left in the city.

And so they had entered the city. The remaining daedra that stood between them and the chapel had been no trouble - or so she had assumed upon first seeing them. One of the clannfears had caught her off guard, dragging its claws across her arm, leaving her with a rather sizable gash. She had healed it to the best of her abilities, but restorative spells took a lot of energy, and she was low on magicka as it was. Indeed, she could feel the bitter taste of nausea at the back of her throat. She also felt the very strong desire to never move ever again.

She glared into the fire. She didn't care much for it. It looked too much like Oblivion. She _knew_ it was different, of course. Oblivion was cold, while the fire in front of her was warm and inviting. She idly wondered how the camp managed to stay dry with the rain pouring down around it, before she remembered Sigrid. _Oh, right. Highly skilled mage, alchemist, and merchant. Of course._

That didn't make her feel much better. She shuddered slightly and moved back a few inches, wincing as her stomach churned and a flash of pain traveled up her arm.

She hoped that Ivar and the guardsmen were doing better than she was.

* * *

"By _Sithis_, I hope Rosemonde is doing better than I am," Ivar muttered under her breath, dodging under the blade of the greatsword that was carving its way through the air. "Oi, horseface! You missed!"

The dremora screeched and readied its sword for another attack. Ivar took the precious few moments he had to ready his magicka. He didn't have a huge reserve of it like Rosemonde seemed to, and he had never been trained by the University, but M'raaj-Dar had taught him a few spells that would come in handy on the job, and there was always that _lovely_ benefit to being born under the stars of the Shadow.

He cast the spell, let the power seep through his skin. He glanced down at his hand for a short moment. He couldn't see it. Good. He dove out of the way just as the dremora swung its sword at him again. The Daedra staggered, looking around in confusion. If it had been slightly more alert, it would have noticed the stranger flicker in the air as Ivar slipped around it. It didn't, of course, and Ivar had ample time to drive his blade into the creature's neck.

He let the spell dissipate, allowing himself to be seen again. "That's the last of them!" he called over to the captain. "Think we should get those sorry sods out of the chapel now?" He jerked his head towards the large building. He wasn't particularly keen about going in their and leading the refugees to safety, especially since he was technically supposed to be killing one of them. But he didn't want to risk Rosemonde's ire, and he _certainly_ didn't want to risk the ire of an angry guard-captain. "I mean, it's probably barricaded from the inside, but maybe if we knock politely?"

Captain Matius ran a quick gaze around the area before sheathing his sword. "It's safe, for now. Come on." Without hesitation, the captain strode up to the chapel and pounded on the door. "Is anyone in there?" he said. "The daedra are gone. We're here to get you out of here."

A few moments passed. Then there was a response as a woman's voice sounded from the other side of the door. "Captain Matius, sir? Is that you?"

Matius breathed a clear sigh of relief. "Tierra, is that you? How many are with you?" His expression was hopeful, too hopeful. Ivar could only count the seconds until...

"Not many, sir. Just me, Berich Inian, and about half a dozen civilians."

Matius's face fell, and he leaned against the door. "Damn," he murmured. At least, that's what Ivar was sure he said. "That's it?" he asked. "There's no one else?"

"No, sir," the voice said. "There were others, but they refused to stay in the chapel. We tried to convince them it was too dangerous, but..."

"I see," Captain Matius said. "Listen, the area between the chapel and the city gate has been cleared. The Oblivion gate has been closed. I need you to lead to civilians back to the encampment, along the road just south of here."

"Yes, sir!" There was the sound of something heavy grinding against stone, and the door opened slightly. A Redguard woman in Kvatch guard armor stoof there, stepping aside and letting them in. "Sir," she said as they passed. "What about the castle? It's still overrun by Daedra, and the count is still in there!"

"I know, Tierra," the captain said. "After you get the civilians to the camp, come back here so we can plan a counterattack against the bastards. The rest of the guard and I will stay here until you return. We're going to need every sword we've got."

Tierra nodded sharply. "Sir, yes, sir!" She raised her voice, turning to the refugees huddled in the chapel. "Civilians! It's time to move out! Let's go!"

A haggard Breton man was the first to step forward. "The Daedra are gone?" he asked, his trembling voice full of hope. "That gate has been shut?"

Captain Matius nodded, and a whisper spread through the crowd. One by one the refugees followed Tierra out of the chapel and into the rain. One, two, three, four... Wait. Ivar's eyes narrowed. The guardswoman had said there had been half a dozen civilians. So where were numbers five and six?

A strangled sob answered his question, and he turned to see a tall woman with ratty hair of a familiar shade of light brown, sitting slumped on one of the pews, back turned to him and the door. A priest in grey robed with long, dark hair sat next to her, murmuring something Ivar couldn't quite hear.

Ivar resisted the urge to snap at them, preferring to slowly sneak up behind them to better catch their conversation.

"-I know you're worried about her, Joldi," the priest was murmuring. "I'm worried, too. But if she's anywhere, she'll be at the camp. You can't stay here."

"And what if she's not at the camp?" the woman sobbed. "What if she's still in a basement somewhere, or searching for me out there... there are still Daedra out there, Martin, I can't just go down to the camp if there's still a chance she's in the city somewhere."

Ivar cleared his throat. He took great amusement in seeing the two jump and whirl to face him almost in unison. "Excuse me," he said, "but I couldn't help but overhear, and I was wondering if there was anything I could do. If it'll get you two to come down to the camp, at least." He couldn't help his gaze from flicking to the priest momentarily. He knew that face well, having watching the man lead civilians into the chapel the night before. "After all, it's dangerous here, if you haven't noticed."

The woman... Joldi, was it?... blinked. "Who are you?" she said through tears.

_I'm the man who risked my life to save your ass._ Ivar bit the words back. He didn't want his name attached to this any more than it had to be. He didn't play the hero type. "I'm a someone who could be a friend, if you need my help," he said. "I've spent quite a while in the camp, so if you're wondering if someone's there, I could tell you."

Joldi hesitated. "My daughter," she said after a long pause. "She and I, we... we got separated during the original attack. She's so young, and I'm scared she might be hurt, o-or worse..."

That explained the hair, then. "Little Nord girl, about ten, same color hair as yours, wields around a wooden sword?" _Bit of a brat?_

"Y-yes!" Joldi's eyes widened. "She's... Hjette's alive?"

"Alive and kicking. Literally." Ivar took a couple steps back. "Your sister got her out safely."

"Sigrid...? Oh, praise the Divines!" The woman jumped to her feet. "I need to go. I've been so worried...!" And with that, the woman ran off after the other refugees.

Ivar watched her go with more than a touch of amusement, before turning to the priest. "Oh, by the way, Martin, was it? The woman who closed the Oblivion gate wants to talk to you. Something important. You should go see her down at camp..."

* * *

Rosemonde wasn't quite sure when she had dozed off. All she knew is that she awoke to the sound of unfamiliar voices and excited whispers. Blinking open her eyes, she sat up, running a hand through her dark hair. She only barely noticed that it had come free from its knot, her focus more on the people coming down the hill. She first felt confusion, her mind still clouded by exhaustion. Who were these people? What had happened up at the city? Where were the guards and Ivar? She could see one of them, a Redguard woman leading the people down, but...

Then a wave of realization her, and she couldn't help but smile.

Hjette's voice split the air. "Mother!"

"Hjette!" A light-haired woman exclaimed, moving forward. Hjette ran forward and all but leaped into the woman's arms. _That must be Hjette's mother_, Rosemonde thought. It was good to see that she had survived.

But then she paused to count how many refugees were coming down the hill, and her heart sank. Only about half a dozen. Damn it. She should have been there sooner, shouldn't have stopped to rest in the Imperial City, shouldn't have let herself get knocked out back at Hackdirt... she could have gotten here sooner, saved more people.

Rosemonde turned back to the campfire, clutching her wound tightly. Damn, did it ever hurt. She wondered if it was going to become infected. Growling under her breath, she tried casting a small healing spell to try closing it the rest of the way. Her palm flickered with energy, but the wound stayed as it was, partially open and scabbed over.

"You must be the one who closed the gate."

Rosemonde jumped, startled out of her wits, and whirled around, biting back a shriek of shock. An Imperial man in simple gray robes stood behind her, offering a an almost imperceptible smile. He couldn't have been older than mid-thirties, yet his weary eyes and slumped shoulders were that of a man who was far older. He had long dark hair that fell to his shoulders, framing his tan face. And his eyes... _Damn_, she thought appreciatively. They were beautiful. She had never seen eyes that shade of blue before. Or had she...? He looked somewhat familiar.

"Y-you scared me," she managed to stammer out, her heart still racing.

"I'm sorry," the man said, kneeling down next to her. "I merely wanted to thank you for what you did." His voice was quiet, soft, yet held an unmistakable richness in it. "After all, you saved Kvatch."

"Ah, well, I actually didn't do that much. I just sort of..." _Let myself get ambushed and spent a minute or so on the floor in agony._ "...helped." Rosemonde's uninjured hand flew to the gnarled staff that sat at her side. She despised the thing, but it was too useful. She couldn't just give it up.

"Really?" The man raised an eyebrow. "Your friend told me that you had all but closed the gate single-handed."

"Would this 'friend' happen to be a blond Bosmer in black leather armor?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Well, two points. One, he's not my friend. He's more of an amiable acquaintance. Two, I don't know _what_ he told you, but I certainly was not the one who closed the gate in the end." She grabbed her wound again, wincing slightly.

The man noticed immediately. "You're hurt!" he exclaimed.

"It's not that bad, really. I'd have healed it by now, but my magicka..."

Before she could finish speaking, the man had taken her arm and run a gentle hand over it. His palm flickered with magicka, and Rosemonde gasped slightly as her wound began to close up, the gentle sensation of restorative magic running through her veins. "I..." She couldn't think of what to say.

"How did you get this?" the man asked, still focused on her arm.

"A clannfear," she said. "Really, I shouldn't have gotten this in the first place. I have a shield spell, I know how to use it, I just haven't been. I can't really understand why not, as this is the first time I've been caught off guard in two days and... I don't know. I've been under a lot of stress, I guess." Wait, now she was rambling aimlessly. That was not what she wanted to do. "Though I guess I should probably start, huh? When my magicka comes back, I mean."

She could have been imagining it, but she swore that small smile of his grew slightly wider. He pulled away slightly. "There. How does that feel?"

She stared at her arm. It was perfectly smooth, with not even the barest hint that there had been a wound in the first place. "Wow," she said. "That's... wow." She looked up at him. "Thank you. Wow, this is... there's not why I would have been able to do that, even at full magicka. Thanks!"

"You're welcome." He met her gaze, tilting his head slightly. "Your... acquaintance told me that you wished to speak to me about something important?"

"Wha..." It took a few moments before Rosemonde realized what the man was talking about. "You're Brother Martin? The priest?"

"Yes," he said, the bitterness in his voice obvious. "But if you need a priest, I'm afraid I'll be of little use to you. I'm having a little trouble understanding the gods right now. If this," he said, gesturing to the camp, "if... if what happened to Kvatch is some sort of divine plan, I'm not sure if I want anything to do with it."

Rosemonde stared at him for a few moments as she sorted out what to say. "Listen, Martin, I know this is going to sound odd, but you need to come with me to Weynon Priory and talk to Brother Jauffre."

Martin blinked. "...I'm sorry, what?"

Rosemonde bit her lip. Of course. "I need your help. Brother Jauffre needs your help." _The empire needs your help_. "You're... come on, I'd rather not tell you in the middle of camp. Someone could be listening." She got to her feet, wincing as her stomach turned. Damned magicka.

"I don't understand," Martin said as he followed her outside the camp. "Why do you need my help? What does this Brother Jauffre want to speak with me? Who are you?"

Rosemonde glanced back at the camp to make sure they were a safe distance away, and then whirled to face Martin. "You're the Emperor's son," she said. There. No bush-beating, no dancing around the subject. She just... up and said it.

..._Why did I just up and say it like that?_

Martin was shocked. "Wha... you think I'm the _Emperor's so_-"

"Shh!" Rosemonde hissed. "Not so loud, please. And I don't just think you're the Emperor's son. I know it."

Now Martin was shaking his head. "No," he said firmly. "You must have the wrong man. I... I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a _farmer_, not..."

"The Emperor told me to find you," Rosemonde said, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "He must have known you would be in danger. That's why the gate opened here. They're here for you Martin. You think they chose Kvatch because it looked pretty?" She took a deep breath. "A few moments ago you said that you couldn't understand the gods. That if this is all some sort of Divine plan, you want nothing to so with it. Well, I'm sorry, but gods or not, plan or not, _we need your help_. Just... just please, come to Weynon Priory with me. Listen to what Brother Jauffre has to say. Please..." she trailed off. She turned away, feeling her cheeks grow warm. She hadn't intended for half of that to come out. It just sort of... did.

Martin leaned against the nearest tree, running a hand down his face. "I prayed to Akatosh all of last night... that terrible night," he said quietly. "I prayed for answers. I prayed for help. But no help came. Only more Daedra. And now you're telling me that an entire city was destroyed to get at me. Why?" His voice trembled slightly. "Because I'm the Emperor's _son_?"

"I... I'm sorry, but... yes."

"I... why am I even listening to you? I don't even know your _name_."

"Martin, why would I lie to you?" Rosemodne asked.

There was a long silence between the two. "I don't know," Martin said. "It's strange, but I think you might be telling the truth. What does this mean? What do you want from me?"

"Come with me to Weynon Priory," Rosemonde repeated.

Martin hesitated. "There's talking about it, you know," he said. "How you went in. The guards told you not to, but you did it anyway. And you shut the gate. You gave them hope." To Rosemonde's suprise, he nodded. "Yes. I'll come with you to Weynon Priory and hear what this Jauffre has to say."

"T-thank you," Rosemonde stammered. She hadn't expected him to say yes. Hoped, maybe, but not expected. "I... can I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"Where's Ivar?" she asked. "The Bosmer who told you to talk to me. He didn't come back from the city, at least not that I saw."

"He said he was staying behind to help Captain Matius take back the castle," Martin said.

"...Oh." Ivar Llandovery, working together with the Captain of the Kvatch guard.

There was no way this could end well.

* * *

**A/N - Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.**


	12. Liberation

**A/N - So, I figured out most, if not all, of the chapters for Unlikely Heroes. There are at least 80 chapters planned, and nearly 240K words at minimum. I think my creative muse either loves me or wants to kill me. Or both. Both is good. Also, this chapter likely isn't as good as the last incarnation. Ah, well.  
**

**harahi24 - I made a typo on a Martin line? I have failed as a Martin fangirl! Hahaha, but in all serious, I've fixed it. Thank you for pointing it out for me! :) That's a particularly fail typos, too, because I had a page open with every line Martin has ever said. How did I screw up that badly?  
**

**Ailkaro - Well, I enjoyed writing this chapter more, too! :D The last version did feel way too stiff and, well, not Martin-y enough for my liking. It helps that I'm a bit better at writing Martin now. A bit.  
**

**Jane - Awww, thank you! Martin is amazing, yes. (I do ask, though, ask that for future reference people not put spoilers in their reviews. Someone who hasn't finished the game may want to go through the reviews, and I wouldn't want significant events spoiled for them.)  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

* * *

_"You know," Ivar mused, "I've suddenly found myself quite bored."_

_Thin-Scales glanced over at him, red reptilian eyes glinting with mischief. "What did you have in mind?" the young Argonian asked, pulling his legs out of the water. The two adolescent boys were sitting on the shore of the Abecean sea, right next to the Anvil docks. Technically, they were both supposed to be working, but they had both decided that they could take a break from work. Lelles wouldn't be upset, after all. He was unusually lenient for someone with such an important business. That was part of the reason why Ivar and Thin-Scales liked working there so much.  
_

_"Hmm," Ivar tilted his head. "We could go visit the blacksmith's."  
_

_Thin-Scales laughed. It was a harsh, throaty laugh. "You just want a chance to see Llensi." Llensi was the blacksmith's apprentice, an enthusiastic Dunmer girl who constantly talked about joining the Fighter's Guild. It was because of Llensi that Ivar instantly jump at the chance to deliver repair hammers and inots and various other items to the blacksmith, and it suddenly became clear that Ivar hadn't exactly been subtle about it.  
_

_"Well... all right, yes," he said. "Is that a crime now? She's a pretty girl, and nice to boot."  
_

_"As head over heels as _you_ may be for her, Ivar, I'd rather not hang around a smelter all day. Too hot and dry."  
_

_"I thought you Argonians were cold-blooded and thus needed heat to survive.?"  
_

_"We're also semi-aquatic. That and burning coals generally tend not to go together well."  
_

_"All right, point taken." Ivar thought. Then a wicked idea crossed his mind, and he couldn't suppress a smirk. "We could always go bother the guards," he suggested.  
_

_The Argonian grinned. Well, Ivar thought he was grinning, anyway. "I like that idea."  
_

* * *

"So," Ivar said, crossing his arms over his chest and gazing evenly at the guard-captain in front of him. "Do you have a plan, or is your plan 'run screaming at the enemies, weapons brandished and hope they die of laughter?'"

He didn't much care for the strategies of soldiers. Most times he found that they had no appreciation for _finesse_. Or skill. Honestly, he could have sworn that none of them had ever heard of a marvelous thing called "flanking." Though, he really shouldn't have been complaining, as these guards seemed to be an exception. They at least were somewhat competent, the guard-captain especially. But it was ever so fun riling them up.

Indeed, Ivar relished the glare that Captain Matius shot him. "If we want to take this city back, we need to get to the castle," he said curtly, "and I have every intention of retaking Kvatch. We can reach the castle entrance easily enough, but we'll need someone to open the gate when we get there. That's where you come in, if you'll still fight with us."

"Well, I don't exactly have anything better to... wait, what was this about opening a gate?"

"The gate that leads to the castle courtyard," Captain Matius explained. "The Daedra managed to get it closed, and we can't open it from the outside. Fortunately, there's a way to get to the gate mechanisms through the guardhouse. That's where you come in. You and Berich Inian-" he gestured to a weary-looking Imperial, "-will get to the guardhouse and open up the gate so the me and my men can reach the courtyard."

"So you all can storm the castle, right?" Ivar said. "Well, I can see why you would choose me for such a daring task. After all, I do have 'infiltrator' written all over me." He gestured to his armor. _Ironically, having "infiltrator" written all over oneself would actually make one a very poor infiltrator indeed,_ he mused. all of that aside, he had to admit it was a fairly solid plan. Well, except for one detail. "Why are you sending one of your men with me?" he asked. "I infiltrate better on my own."

"Because Berich has the key, and as much as you've done for Kvatch, I still don't know if I can trust you to do this alone," Captain Matius said. "I know your kind."

"What kind? Bosmer? Archer? Man of searing wit and a keen eye?"

"Assassin."

Ivar froze, glaring at him fiercely. "I don't like to leave a job unfinished," he growled after a few moments, ignoring the fact that he had an unfinished job down in the camp, likely having a nice chat with Rosie about the fate of all Tamriel or something. "If you want me to bring one of your guards? Fine. All right. It's completely unnecessary and leaves you with one less man on your side, which is a _terrible_ strategic move, by the way, but whatever." He whirled around, shooting a quick glare at Berich, who was standing there with an expression that could only be describe as infuriated shock. "Just don't expect me to play nice."

* * *

_"Well, we can't exactly play nice with them, can we?"  
_

_"What do you mean?"  
_

_Ivar rolled his eyes. "Thin-Scales, they've been harassing the beggars for weeks," he said, "especially that Langley fellow. We need to get them back, and we need to get them good." He turned his attention back to the pick he had just inserted into the lock, hoping that it wouldn't break. He only had the one. "Besides, there's no way this plan can go wrong."  
_

_"That's what the hero always says before something goes horribly wrong," Thin-Scales said, shifting from one foot to the other.  
_

_"I think you're forgetting one very important thing, Thin-Scales," Ivar said, shooting the Argonian a sly smirk. "We're not playing the hero today." As if to prove his point, the lock clicked open, and the door to the barracks swung open with the smallest of creaks. Ivar gave Thin-Scales a pointed glance as he slipped inside.  
_

_Only a couple guards were in the barracks, and they were sleeping quite soundly, if the loud sound of snoring that filled the air was any indication. Ivar gestured to Thin-Scales, beckoning him to come in. "You know the plan, right?" he whispered.  
_

_Thin-Scales nodded. "Scare them with that demoralizing spell you read from one of those books Lelles was selling. Yeah, I remember."  
_

_"Exactly." With a wave us his hand, Ivar concentrated what little energy he had and cast his spell. Every candle in the room seemed to go out. He winced and leaned against a table to catch his breath. "You have no idea how hard it is to cast an invisibility spell on fire, even with my birthsign," he said breathlessly.  
_

_Thin-Scales shook his head, shrugging. "Well, I kind of can't know, remember?" he asked, his rough voice holding more than a bit of bitterness in it. "I'm 'magically deficient.'" That was what the Mages' Guild had called it, anyways. Ivar could still remember the Argonian's disappointment when he was told; Thin-Scales had wanted to be a mage ever since he was little.  
_

_"Sorry," he said, shifting uncomfortable. The floor underneath his feet creaked, and he froze, shooting a nervous glance towards the sleeping guards. Not a single one stirred. He let out a small sigh, and turned to Thin-Scales. "Close the curtains. We need this place as dark is it can get."  
_

_The Argonian did as he was told, and the two of them waiting in darkness."  
_

* * *

"Is it always this dark down here?" Ivar whispered, keeping a steady hand on his bow. "Not that I mind, really. I like the dark. Just curious."

It was hard to tell, even with his Night-Eye spell, but he was sure that Berich was sending him a pointed glare that he decided to ignore for the time being. "There are usually a few candles lit, maybe a couple torches," the guard said. "But given the circumstances, I'm sure no one had the time to light them."

"Well, like I said, I don't mind. I'm a bit curious as to why we have to go through the undercroft to get to the guardhouse, though. Seems a bit silly." Ivar placed a hand on the nearest pillar, scanning the large underground room.

"What's the matter, assassin?" Berich shot back. "Afraid of the dead?"

"No. They're dead, it's useless to be afraid of-" Ivar froze. A shadow of movement had caught his eye, and it wasn't Berich. "Shh," he hissed, crouching low and drawing an arrow from his quiver. He crept closer, now eternally thankful for the cover that darkness provided.

Under the magic of Night-Eye, he soon saw and identified the creature. A scamp. The small, impish creature was crawling around the Undercroft, sniffing loudly, seeking out the two people who had been talking moments before. Ivar drew back his arrow, aimed carefully, and fired.

He barely scored a hit, his arrow burying itself in the scamp's shoulder. It let out an ear-splitting shriek and attacked, it's fireball momentarily illuminating the undercroft as it passed, searing Ivar's ear. He let out a cry and raised a hand to the burn. His ear _hurt_, t the point where Ivar's vision waas blurring and faded. Damned sensitive Bosmer ears.

He turned to see the scamp lunging at Berich, raking its claws over his shield arm. Berich didn't take too kindly to that, apparently, and showed it by driving his sword into the scamp. It fell to the floor, howling in pain as it died. "You all right?" Ivar asked, still clutching his ear.

Berich nodded. "I'm fine. How's you're _ear?_"

Ivar couldn't say he liked the way the man spat out the last word, as if an ear burn was nothing. Then he reminded himself that to a non-mer, it probably wasn't. "It's fine, thank you for you're ever-touching concern," he shot back. "Now, let's get going, shall we? Mustn't keep the captain waiting, after all."

He turned away, and was grateful for the silence that followed.

* * *

_Ivar wasn't sure how it happened. He had been pacing irritably, waiting for one of the guards to wake up. He didn't want to wake one up himself; he feared that the trick might not work as intended. So he had waited. And paced. And tripped.  
_

_He had brought several candles down with him. And while they looked to have gone out, the fire still burned, invisible. And by the time he had scrambled to his feet, realized what had happened, and released the spell, it was too late. The fire had spread, smoke beginning to fill the room.  
_

_The guards had awoken, and ran. Maybe to get some water, to get the guard-captain, or just out of cowardice. Ivar didn't know. All he could feel was panic. He had looked around desperately, searching for a way to quench the flames, but there wasn't one. Now he and Thin-Scales were all but trapped as the flames roared, threatening to consumed everything in their path.  
_

_Including them.  
_

_Thin-Scales was on the floor, barely conscious. Every breath he took was punctuated by a cough. Ivar remembered what he had said about Argonians and fire not mixing well together, and knew instantly that he had to get his friend out of there. But how could he, when his own lungs filled with smoke every second?  
_

_He could stand around and thing on it He scanned the room, searching for an out. Both doors were blocked by flames, and he wasn't exactly eager to get burnt. Then he noticed the windows. One of them was blocked, another's curtain had caught fire, but the last one, the one farthest from them. He grabbed Thin-Scales' unconscious form and slung his arm around his shoulders, pulling them both towards the window. Ivar pulled the curtains open and pushed his friend through first, wincing as the effort tore at his muscles. He struggled to climb through after his friend, but collapsed before he could, coughing weakly. He was blinded by ash and smoke, unable to see where he was.  
_

_A small part of him wondered why he had made the attempt to escape in the first place. He had spent the last of his energy getting his friend out safely - well, as safely as one could push an unconscious friend through a window - and he had no more for himself. Believing anything was pointless, right?  
_

_Flame licked at Ivar's bare souls, causing him to cry out. It was in that moment that any and all self-doubt was squandered. He would not die lying down like a piece of kindling, whose only purpose was to feed the flames. He liked his life, damn it, and damned if he was going to die right now.  
_

_He forced himself to his feet, leaning against the wall for support as he gripped the windowsill. There was a crackle, and a crash. He looked behind him to see that part of the ceiling had come crashing down. Damn. With a burst of adrenaline surging through his veins, he pulled himself up through the window, falling to the ground with a loud _thump_. He gasped as his breath was knocked out of him._

_As he struggled to breath again, the salty Anvil air burning against his throught, something sharp brushed the base of his neck. He opened his eyes, and let out a cry of horror as the Captain of the Guard stood above him, sword pointed at his throat.  
_

* * *

"There is is!"_  
_

Ivarned to see what Berich was pointing at. There, not a hundred feet away, stood a tall tower that Ivar knew could be none other than the guardhouse. Their only wait to the gate mechanism. "Great!" Ivar exclaimed. "This is fantastic! Finally, we can get the guards through and then I can go back to the camp and just not do anything for a while." As much as he enjoyed cutting through Daedra like butter, he was sore.

"I'd hold off on that if I were you, assassin," Berich said in a warning tone. His eyes were fixed on something behind Ivar. Ivar glanced over his shoulder. A few Daedra had noticed their less-than-graceful exit from the undercroft and were making their way towards them. "Well, damn," Ivar muttered. "Any smart ideas, guard?"

Something hit him firmly on the side of the head and fell to the floor with an almost familiar jingling sound. He blinked, and glanced down to see that he had been hit with a keyring. "I'm sorry, I fail to see how hitting me constitutes a 'smart idea' in any way, shape, or form."

"Take the keys and get to the guardhouse," Berich growled. "I'll hold them off."

"Right. One guard against a half-dozen daedra. I'd wager ten septims you'd last maybe two minutes against them, and that's generous."

"If you're as skilled an infiltrator as you say, you shouldn't need two minutes!" Berich shot back. "Go! The Captain's waiting!"

Ivar sighed, rolled his eyes and plucked the keys up off the ground. "Well, it's _your_ life on the line," he shot back before turning and heading towards the guardhouse. He didn't shoot Berich a second glance as he ran in, shoved the key unceremoniously into the trapdoor in the center of the tower floor and dropped into the area below.

A long, thin hallway stretched in front of him before a set of stairs that surely led to the castle courtyard. And there, in the middle of the hall, was fire. A flame atronach, to be precise.

And here, he had the disadvantage. There was no room for him to maneuver, and no way he could just disappear. The atronach had already noticed him, and started charging down the hall, a trail of flame behind it. He drew an arrow and aimed, his heart pounding against his chest. He had one shot, one chance before the creature killed him.

He fired.

His arrow pierced the heart of the creature, and it fell back, letting out a high-pitched keen as it vanished into thin air. Ivar glowered at the dust that was left of the creature as he walked passed, stomping out the remaining flames as he did.

It didn't take long for him to reach the stairs, the courtyard, and the gate mechanism, in that order. As he opened the gate, Captain Matius came rushing through, looking somewhat worse for wear and down a couple men. "You look nice," Ivar said, raising an eyebrow. "That bloody, ashen, desperate look really suits you."

"Where's Berich?" Matius demanded.

"He stayed behind to buy me a little time," Ivar said. There was no emotion in his voice. He didn't feel anything for someone who would through their life away for such a useless purpose.

"Guess again, Captain."

Ivar and Captain Matius both whirled around. Walking into the courtyard, hand clutched and his bloody side, sword long abandoned, was Berich Inian, a smirk on his face. "I think you owe me ten septims, elf," Berich wheezed, laughing slightly.

"Hmm, I guess I do," Ivar said, crossing his arms over his chest. He was impressed. He honestly hadn't expected the man to live past the first Daedra. "Remind me to pay you when we get back to camp."

"Heh." Berich turned to Captain Matius. "Reporting for duty, sir."

"Not in that state, you're not," Captain Matius said. "Go down to the camp and make sure Sigrid gets your wounds treated. And that's an order. Jesan, go with him."

Berich nodded and hobbled off, another guard joining him. "So, Ivar said as he turned to Captain Matius. "Castle storming time, I presume?"

* * *

_He had lied about it, of course. He regretted it, but he needed to save his own skin. He had this marvelous little thing called self-preservation. There was no way he could tell the truth and not get thrown in jail for months, even with it having been an accident; he had, after all, still broken into the guard's. He didn't like the idea of prison. It sounded very not-fun. He just wished he hadn't chosen that particular lie.__  
_

_He had pinned the blame on Thin-Scales. He had lied and said it was his best friend who had thought up everything, and that he, the hapless victim, had been caught up in the Argonian's games. He had lied to escape punishment. And some part of him felt _proud_ of it. He hated that part._

_He spent the next few weeks pacing, worrying, and wondering if Thin-Scales was going to be all right. If the guards were treating him properly. He had been badly hurt in the fire, after all.  
_

_He wanted to see him. But he couldn't. He was at fault.  
_

_But it was an accident.  
_

_But it was still his fault.  
_

_But then, as the weeks turned to months, Ivar forgot about it. He went back to work, he talked with his friends, and he tried to flirt with Llensi. He moved on.  
_

_For a while longer, some part of him wondered about Thin-Scales.  
_

_That part soon vanished, and life resumed as normal, even with a certain magically-deficient Argonian missing from it.  
_

_And Ivar was fine with that_.

* * *

"Damn!"

Captain Savlian Matius fell to his feet by the corpse of Count Ormellius Goldwine. The count had been all but ripped apart. Blood was everywhere, and deep claw wounds covered the man's face and body.

"Damn it!" Captain Matius repeated. "If we had just gotten here sooner, if we had gotten him out beforehand..."

Ivar sighed. "_Captain_, with all do respect, is moaning about the what-ifs really going to help?" he asked, twirling his dagger in between his fingers.

The captain looked up at him, eyes wide as he tried to process what Ivar had said. "What?"

"I'm just saying," Ivar said, "fretting about what you 'could have done' isn't going to bring your count back to life. What you can do is move on and learn from your mistakes - trust me, I've been there. Fretting does no one any good."

"How can you say that?" Captain Matius growled. "The count is lying here _dead_ because we didn't get here fast enough, and all you have to say is 'get over it?'"

"Oh, for the love of - Point _one._" Ivar gestured to the count's corpse. "He is not dead because of you. He is dead because of the Daedra. Unless you were the one who turned him into something vaguely resembling a lion's supper, then blaming yourself is pointless and gets you know where. Point _two:_ yes, that is all I have to say. Mourning does nothing. Moping does nothing. You know what does things? _Doing something_."

"And what have you done, assassin?" The captain's voice dripped with contempt. "I've seen you in battle. You're competent, I'll give you that. So why didn't you do a damned thing to help us stop the Daedra? With your help, we could have closed it in time, we could have gotten more people out alive?"

"I'm not your damned hero, Captain," Ivar snapped, uninjured ear flicking in rage. Something inside him had just snapped, and the calculating and sarcastic persona was gone, with only sheer anger to take its place. "I don't do things for others unless I'm getting paid to do it. I'm nobody's hero, nobody's lackey, and I wasn't about to risk my life for people I didn't know. The only reason I went into the gate in the first place was because I was beaten into it." He neglected the part where he had been beaten into it by a little girl with a wooden sword. "So you can take your cries of 'you could have helped' and stick them where the sun never shines. I have a thing called self-preservation, and I intend to utilize it to its fullest from here on out."

He turned away and began to storm off, stopping only when he reached the doorway. "Oh, and Captain?"

"What?" He could hear the anger in the Captain's voice. but he didn't care. He was angry, too.

"_Get over it._"

* * *

**A/N - Ivar, stop being an uncaring asshole. It's unbecoming of you.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	13. Road

**A/N - So, this chapter's going to be relatively short because, well, it was really short last time. On an unrelated note, I hate tumblr. I hate it a lot. Tumblr, get your crap together.  
**

**AnonymousInkBlot - Oh, thank you! I'm glad you enjoy it. And yeah, Rosemonde does have a bit less experience in that department, but that was fully intentional. She was very tough to play as in the actual game, given her only real combat skill was Hand-to-Hand, so I'm trying to transcribe that here. Except the parts where she uses Telekinesis like it's the Force. I only wish we could do that in-game.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

* * *

_The Thirtieth of Last Seed, 3E433_

* * *

"You know, I don't think you've told me your name yet."

Rosemonde glanced over at Martin, her gaze still a bit blurry from sleep. She had dozed off and woken up several times now, and had given up all hope of actually staying asleep. She was now sitting in front of the fire again, idly drawing shapes in the warm dirt with a small stick she had found. "Rosemonde," she muttered, drawing an eye in the dirt. It stared up at her, unmoving, judging. Gods, even her own mindless drawings were judging her. She ran a hand over the eye, erasing it, and tossed the stick aside. "Rosemonde," she said. "Rosemonde Rousseau."

"Rosemonde," Martin repeated, his expression thoughtful. "That's a nice name. Breton?"

"Mm-hmm." She stared down at her boots, idly flicking off a piece of blood-red grass that she must have picked up from Oblivion. "Both my parents came from High Rock. I was raised in the Imperial City, though."

"How did you... get involved in all this?"

"What, rescuing all of Kvatch to rescue the Emperor's son?" Rosemonde hesitated for a few moments. How much should she tell him? "I... met the Emperor. In prison, a few days ago. Ivar was there, too." Martin raised an eyebrow, but didn't question further. "I was... I was there when he died. He gave me the Amulet and told me to take it to Brother Jauffre." She kept her voice low, for fear of being heard. "And Brother Jauffre told me to come find you, and, well, here we are now." She gestured at nothing in particular before glancing up at the sky. The sun was just barely above the horizon, giving the sky a pinkish glow. Ivar and the guards had been in Kvatch for hours. Had something gone wrong? She bit her lip nervously.

Martin must have noticed. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Jus' a bit worried," she muttered. "About Ivar. Not sure why, though. He's, well, not the friendliest or most sympathetic man on the planning, and given his choice of career as..." she trailed off. She probably shouldn't mention that to him.

"As an assassin?"

Not that not mentioning it would have done much good apparently. "So you noticed."

"He doesn't exactly make an attempt at hiding it."

"Mmm, true."

A sharp voice sounded from behind the two of them. "Well, I'm almost offended. I assure you, my skills are nigh unparalleled."

Rosemonde and Martin both turned around to see Ivar standing there, arms folded over his chest, a look of mock affront on his face. Rosemonde fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, that explains how you've been recognized as little more than a killer-for-hire several times now."

"Don't call me that. I'm an assassin, and assassins have this little thing called _finesse_."

"In lieu of subtlety, apparently," Rosemonde said. Her gaze focused on a pack slung haphazardly over his shoulder, a pack that she didn't recognize this. "What's that?"

"What, this?" Ivar gestured to the pack. "Food and basic supplies, as well as a map. If we're going to be heading to Chorrol, we need to be able to know which road is which, especially near the Imperial City. Honestly, you'd think they'd simplify the path a bit more."

Rosemonde blinked. "'We?'" she repeated. "You're not coming with, are you?"

"Well, it's better than staying here," Ivar said, shrugging. "Besides, you two look like you're going to need me to help you out. I mean, _really_. Out of the two of us, Rosemonde, who has more experience in matters relating to not dying?"

"Given that we're both still alive?"

Ivar waved her retort away. "Semantics. Besides, I don't think I'll exactly be welcome around here much longer. I, ah... may have angered the captain of the guard. In any other circumstance, I wouldn't care, but given exactly how I offended him, it's best if I personally don't stick around. So, it makes sense that I'd go with you to Chorrol."

Rosemonde was about to agree - after all, they _could_ use an extra blade with them - before a horrid realization flitted through her mind. She glanced at Martin and back at Ivar, her glare asking one question: _Is this a trap?_

He responded with a glare of his own, that held the answer: _No._

"All right, then," Rosemonde said. "I don't see why not. You did, ah, help with the gate after all." She got to her feet, wobbling a bit. Her magicka had returned, for the most part. She was just tired. "I don't think we're going to need that map, though. The roads aren't that difficult. They have this marvelous little thing called 'signs,' see."

"Yes, yes, you're very funny," Ivar growled. "Are we leaving or not?"

Rosemonde glanced over at Martin, who was standing up himself. "Are you ready?" she asked.

"If you are."

"All right, then." Rosemonde turned back to Ivar. "To Chorrol, then. And you're perfectly free to leave us at any time, I assure you," she added, her voice dripping with venom.

Ivar grinned. "Don't count on it." He turned and started walking down the rode, his gait quick and rushed. "You two coming?"

"Is he always like this?" Martin asked, glancing at Rosemonde.

"Well, I've only known him for a few days, but from what I've seen? Yes."

* * *

"What's that?"

Rosemonde stopped, gritting her teeth. "What's _what_, Ivar?" She asked, forcing a bitter smile as she turned to face the Bosmer.

"That." Eyes narrowed slightly, Ivar pointed at something hidden deep in the thick forest on the side of the road. A small path trailed between to trees towards whatever he was pointing to. Rosemonde could barely make out a blurry form in the distance, roughly the size of a small house. "What am I supposed to be looking at, exactly?"

"I'm not sure," Ivar said, an excited look in his eyes. "Maybe we should go check it out!"

Before Rosemonde could answer - a very resounding _"Divines, no"_ being on the forefront of her mind - Ivar had run off down the path towards the thing in the distance, whatever it was. Rosemonde watched him leave incredulously. "Unbelievable," she said. "Calls his skills unparalleled and runs off at the first sign of something interesting. Oh, how I'm ever so glad he's accompanying us." Some part of her wanted to just let the elf explore whatever it was that he found so interesting. She and Martin had to get to the Cloud Ruler Temple as soon as possible. And since they were traveling by the main road, it was already gonna be a two-day trip at the least.

But something nagged at her. Her _own_ curiosity, tugging at the hem of her pants and begging to go see what it was. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, making a mental note to tie it back up when they got to Skingrad. "Damn," she sighed wearily. "Come on. We'd best go see what's got him excited, shouldn't we?" Without really thinking about it, she took hold of Martin's hand as the two of them warily walked down the path.

_If this isn't worth it, I'm punching Ivar in the face._

* * *

**A/N - Like I said. Short chapter.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	14. Sandstone

**A/N - This quest is awesome. Out of the way and hard to find, but oh so worth it. Also, chapters may come a bit slower after this, because this is about where the first version stopped, so it will be less "rewrite chapters I've already written" and more "write completely new chapters, so... *shrugs* Also, 2000 views. I love you guys, I really do.  
**

**harahi24 - Hush, your fanfiction is great. And "night unparalleled" was a rather unfortunate typo on my part. (Is it weird that as soon as I read that I thought of Ivar in a Batman costume?) Thanks for pointing it out, I've fixed it. And it's perfectly okay if you give a shout-out! Trust me, I don't mind. :D  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

It was a farm.

It was a relatively small farm, a little ways out of the way. Rosemonde questioned the wisdom of trying to grow vegetables in the thick forest, but it seemed to work well enough for whoever lived there, so she couldn't really judge. The location of the farm wasn't the oddest part, though. The oddest part was that the door was wide open, swaying slightly in the warm breeze.

Ivar was standing a few feet away from the door, dagger drawn, eying the door with a wary expression on his face. "Something wrong?" Rosemonde asked, raising an eyebrow.

"There's no one in there," Ivar growled, ears twitching. "It's completely abandoned. Judging by the dust, it's been that way for a while."

"So?"

"Houses don't just get abandoned like this. There's still furniture and food, but... no _people_. No signs of struggle, either, so whoever used to live hear probably went willingly. Come on, I'll show you." Still keeping a firm hand on his dagger, the Bosmer slipped into the house. Rosemonde and Martin exchanged a worried glance before following. Under any other circumstances, Rosemonde would have thought twice before walking into someone else's home uninvited, and she could see Martin hesitate out of the corner of her eye, but if what Ivar was saying was true...

It was true. The place _was_ abandoned, and eerily so. A thin layer of dust had begun to form on the floor and tables, and the food had long gone bad. apart from that, though, there wasn't a thing out of place. It was like Ivar said; anyone who lived here just seemed to have gotten up and left. Rosemonde's gaze was drawn to a loose piece of parchment lying on the table, next to a bowl of rather rotten berries. "Maybe this can help," she said, grabbing it. Words were messily scrawled on to it, as if the writer had been in a hurry. "Oh, _Divines_..."

"What does it say?" Ivar asked, leaning over the table, eyes glinting.

Rosemonde took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak the words that had been written on the parchment. "'As midnight approaches, I still watch the fires burn. The great city of man, Kvatch, lies in ruins. They didn't heed my words. They didn't listen to my voice." She glanced up at the others, eyes wide. "Do you think he knew something about the Gate?"

"Perhaps," Ivar said. "Or perhaps he was a madman who made a lucky prediction. Keep reading."

Rosemonde bit her lip. "It... it talks about something called the Sunken One," she said. "It says... 'The burden is mine to shoulder. I am the last who knows of He Who Shakes The Ground. If I do not bring Him an offering, who knows what city may fall to His whim? Anvil? Chorrol? Or perhaps He will turn His eyes towards the greatest boil of all, the Imperial City itself.'" Her voice was shaking now. "'No, I must not let that happen. I must get an offering to Him like my father did before me. Yes, I will brave the depths of Sandstone Cavern to see him. My weapons shall be my will and my word. I must depart soon, before it is too late. If anyone finds this, let them know that I, Slythe Seringi, so this for the good of all man.'" She put the paper back down on the desk, hand trembling.

"Slythe," Martin said. His hands were on the back of the nearest chair, gripping it hard enough to turn his knuckles white as bone. "I know that name."

Ivar looked at him. "Oh?"

"He was a conjurer who came to the city about a week ago," Martin explained. "The guards arrested him for harassing others, but he managed to escape." His eyes darkened with worry. "If he knew something about the gates..."

"I'm more curious as to this 'Sunken One,'" Ivar said. "If this Slythe is correct and not just insane, there's a large and dangerous creature out there with a callous disregard for human life."

"You're one to talk," Rosemonde said.

"I kill because I'm paid to, not out of some psychotic bloodlust," Ivar snapped. "Apart from that, though, I stay out of affairs such as _destroying cities_. Unlike this thing. I don't know what it is, but I want it out of the way, especially considering that it's a potential threat to me personally. And if Mister Seringi is still alive, I'd like to have a little _chat_ with him. Oi, _Emperor_, you know anything about this 'Sandstone Cavern' the note was talking about?"

Martin flinched at the title. "It's not far north from here," he said. "It used to be a goblin's cave, before will o' the wisps drove them out. But... I don't think going in there is such a good idea. That Gate... Such stable portals to Oblivion are nearly impossible. If this Sunken One was the one that opened the Gate, it must be powerful. Very powerful. Trying to fight it would be tantamount to suicide."

"You're just making it sound like a challenge," Ivar said, grinning. "Besides, I think you're underestimating my capabilities a little here."

"I don't think I am."

"I'm insulted." Ivar sheathed his dagger and tossed the pack on the table. "Here. If I'm not back by midday, I'm probably dead, so you two go on to Weynon Priory without me, all right? But don't worry. Like I said, this Slythe fellow's probably just a madman." With that, he walked out of the house, shooting on last arrogant smirk over his shoulder as he did.

A few seconds passed before Rosemonde grabbed the pack and slung it over her shoulder. "We're leaving?" Martin asked, a hint of incredulity in his voice.

"No," Rosemonde said, moving towards the door, "We're following him."

* * *

"You two followed me."

"Well, yes."

Ivar's back was turned to them, but from the way his ears were twitching Rosemonde would bet everything she owned that his expression was one of exasperation. "So," he said, turning to face Rosemonde and Martin, his eyes glinting even in the darkness. "Is there a reason why?"

"Because," Rosemonde said, "you likely saved my life back in the Oblivion gate, I'm as curious as to what this 'Sunken One' is as you are, and if you get hurt you're going to need someone to pull you out of here."

Ivar glared at her, a look of fake offense on his face. "I wasn't going to get hurt," he said.

"Of course you weren't. But now you're definitely not going to get hurt because you've got someone with a shielding spell if you need one."

Ivar opened his mouth in clear objection, before pausing. "All right, then. But if you get killed, you know who to blame." He turned and walked deeper into the cavern, drawing an arrow from his quiver. Rosemonde noted that he was dangerously low. Had he planned on using his dagger to kill the Sunken One, whatever it was?

"You mentioned knowing a shield spell back at Kvatch, if I remember correctly," Martin said Rosemonde as the two of them followed Ivar into the depths of the cavern. "You also mentioned that you hadn't been using it recently."

Rosemonde winced slightly. "Right, well, I'm trying to correct that mistake. I'm a mystic, really, but I know a couple altering and restorative spells. Which reminds me..." She grabbed his forearm and pulled them both to a stop, concentrating her magicka. As Martin turned to look at her, confused, she placed her other hand on his chest and cast the spell she had just prepared. A flicker of light momentarily covered the priest, and he blinked. "I don't want you getting hurt," she explained. "You are the most important person here, after all."

Martin's expression turned into one of discomfort. "Ah, yes. Of course."

Rosemonde glanced up at him, her hazel eyes meeting his own blue ones. "Is something wrong?"

Martin shook his head. "You don't have to worry about me, Rosemonde. I'm just... all of this is taking a bit of getting used to."

"Oh. Right." _You're an idiot_, she told herself. _Yes, let__'s remind the man who just lost his home that he's soon to become Emperor after just learning about his real parentage a matter of hours ago. Real smart, Rosemonde._

"Are you two coming, or are you just going to stand there?" Ivar called. Rosemonde jumped slightly, her face growing slightly red, and began to follow Ivar down into the caverns, Martin following close behind. As they headed further in, Rosemonde noticed that there was a bit of light up ahead. Was there a gap in the ceiling, or...?

Then she remembered what Martin had said about will o' the wisps. _Oh, son of a..._

They rounded a corner to see her suspicions confirmed. A large room... if one could call it that... stood ahead of them, with the only way deeper into the caverns lying on the far side of the room, a rather narrow tunnel. Rosemonde was less concerned about that, though, and more about the pair of spheres spheres of what could only be described as molten light floating aimlessly around the room.

Ivar spoke. "Well," he said, "on the upside, wisps aren't generally hostile. On the downside, wisps feed off of magical energy and, well, that's yet another reason why I didn't want you two tagging along. So, ah... get down."

As if on cue, the nearest wisp froze, flickering and turning a deep red. Rosemonde let out a cry of shock as a red bolt of energy soared through the air and grabbed Martin's shoulder, pulling the two of them to the ground. Ivar had narrowly dodged the bolted, and was aiming the arrow he had drawn, swearing under his breath colorfully enough to make even the toughest of sailor blush. He fired the arrow, piercing the wisp right where its heart would be, if it had one. Rosemonde realized that this must be precisely the reason why his weapons were all made of silver; only silver weapons and those with enchantments on them could harm ethereal creatures such as ghosts, wraiths, and wisps.

The wisp shrieked and disappeared, taking the arrow with it. Unfortunately, the second wisp had noticed them as well and was quickly floating towards them, glowing with an angry scarlet hue. "Don't let it touch you!" Rosemonde warned, scrambling to her feet and blasting the wisp with her staff. It didn't top, didn't even _react_, just kept moving closer. The familiar feeling of a spark in the air filled the air, signaling a destructive spell. Rosemonde got ready to dive out of the way again before realizing that the spark wasn't coming from the wisp.

There was a rush of cold as a bolt of frost shot through the air and collided with the will o' the wisp. It froze for a few moments, giving Ivar the opportunity to lunge forward and drive his blade into it. As the wisp shrieked and faded away, leaving only dust in its place, Rosemonde turned to where the spark had come from: Martin. The priest was still sitting on the ground from when Rosemonde had pushed him down. His eyes were wide, and his hand was outstretched, a faint glow emanating from his palm.

Ivar had noticed as well, and had raised an eyebrow at the sight. "Never seen a priest cast a spell like that before," he said. "Aren't your lot all about the healing and the protecting of other people?"

Martin appeared the hesitate. "I wasn't always a priest," he said, getting to his feet. "I used to train at the University several years ago, before I became a priest."

"Well, I most certainly am not complaining," Ivar said. "Come on, we should get going before something goes terribly wrong. That Sunken One won't stab itself in the heart, you know." He turned around, kicking at the glowing dust the wisp left behind. "Nasty creatures. I just hope there aren't any more of them in here..."

* * *

There were.

"Gah!" Rosemonde cried out as the wisp brushed her skin. Pain lanced through her veins, and she could feel her magicka draining away. She stumbled back, pressing a hand against the nearest wall to support herself. She hit the wisp with a dispel, but all that seemed to do was make it angrier. Martin's frost spell didn't exactly help matters, either. It turned to the priest and cast a blast of red energy his way. Rosemonde moved forward, somewhat unsure of what to do, but it seems her shield spell had held up, as the spell dissipated harmlessly just before it hit him. He hit the wisp with another bolt of frost, and it vanished with a scream.

"You two done yet?" Ivar called from the far end of the chasm. After much searching, they had found a relatively spacey tunnel that led down to this place. Ivar was crouching next to something that Rosemonde couldn't quite make out in the darkness. "Because you two are definitely going to want to see this."

"You could have helped," Rosemonde snapped, moving forward, a bit dizzy. "You've got the biggest advantage. Silver weapons and no large amount of magicka to attract the wisps." There was a bit of bitterness in her voice, but she didn't think it was entirely unfounded. She had literally no way to directly combat a wisp. No weapons, no offensive spells, no _nothing_.

"You two handled yourself well enough," Ivar said. "Besides, I'm both out of arrows and more interested in this." He gestured down. "I think I found Slythe."

Rosemonde let out a gasp, her hands flying to her mouth in horror. "That's... that's _Slythe?_"

"Probably. Guess the Sunken One didn't like his offering."

She could barely believe it. The... thing hardly looked like a person. Mangled nearly beyond recognition, the corpse was burnt and twisted, the remains of its face screwed into an expression of terror. Rocks littered the ground of the cavern, though there was no signs of any damage to the walls. The corpse's eyes were the only recognizable thing, bloodshot and wide as it stared off at an unseen foe. Rosemonde glanced over her shoulder in fear. Clutched in its hand was a burnt and bloody sheet of parchment, which Ivar was trying to wrench out of its grip.

Martin knelt down next to the body, reaching out and closing its eyes. "Akatosh bless you and keep you," he murmured.

With a final tug, Ivar wrenched the letter out of the corpse's hand. "Ha!" he exclaimed. "The son of a bitch has got a grip on him, I'll give him that. Then again, if this is just going to be more mad reverence of some vague underground threat, I'll pass."

Martin glared at him. "You could show a bit of respect for the dead."

"Why? They're _dead_," Ivar said. "I don't even bother to show respect for the _living_ half the time, and they're the ones actually around to get offended. Why should I show respect to a corpse?"

"You..."

"What does the note say?" Rosemonde said quickly, before the argument started heating up.

Ivar blinked and looked down at the parchment. "This handwriting's a bit difficult to read... if I had to guess, I'd wager he wrote this with his dying breath, instead of at least trying to leave. Ah, yes... 'I am fallen. I have failed. I will not reach Him in time. And because of me, man is doomed. Now, all of Tamriel will face wanton destruction and death.'" He paused to roll his eyes before continuing. "'His wrath will be unspeakable, His anger immense. Kvatch was but a small amount of His true potential. All hope is lost. The Sunken One wakens and soon, man will feel His hunger.'" He shook his head. "See? The dying ravings of a madman. Unless this Slythe is a wisp worshiper, there's no Sunken One to be found down here."

"So this whole thing was a waste of time and energy," Rosemonde sighed.

"Seems that wa-" Ivar froze, his left ear twitching ever so slightly, eyes widening. "Wait. Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"_That__._ Listen!"

Rosemonde exchanged a worried glance with Martin. Another wisp? She listened carefully, holding her breath. There was the faint sound of... rock grinding against rock. A secret door? Someone pushing a rock? Her imagination? She listened further. Then she sensed something. The spark of destructive magic. That couldn't be right... unless...

She turned around. The rocks in the chasm were _moving_, alive with electricity as they began to form in the middle of the chasm into a large pile. She watched in horror, taking a step back as the rocks began to float and spin, arranging themselves in an almost humanoid pattern, a ball of electricity forming at the center.

A storm atronach.

"Damn!" she exclaimed. "Get down!"

She threw up the strongest shielding spell she could just as the atronach cast a bolt of lightning their way. Unfortunately, the the wisp's drain at taken a lot out of her, and the shield wasn't quiet strong enough to block the lightning. It pierced through her spell and hit her in the shoulder, sending her falling back. Pain lanced through every nerve she knew about and even a few she didn't. Her vision blurred and flickered, and the sounds around her were muffled and echoed, as if she were in a small tunnel, most of it overcome by a loud buzz in her ears. She could just barely feel a hand on her injured shoulder and the feeling of restorative magic flowing through her wound, healing the burns and soothing the pain. A voice cut through the buzz. "Rosemonde!"

She blinked and looked around frantically, her vision clearing somewhat. Martin was kneeling next to her, a firm hand on her shoulder as he healed her. Nearby, Ivar was locked in a deadly battle with the atronach, barely about to avoid its stony fists as it lunged for him, momentarily turning into a large shape of whirling stones and madness. Ivar was still clearly at a disadvantage. His blade did nothing but chip at the rocks, and he was beginning to tire. He had to strike at the heart of the atronach, but with the rocky shape providing a form of cage around it, he couldn't touch it, not without any arrows.

She winced and began to sit up, a mad idea floating through her head. It would likely mean draining all of her energy, but it was likely either that or die. She couldn't paralyze it; storm atronachs were tough, immune to many things, and had an annoying tendency to send normal magical attacks straight back towards the there was one thing she had that they weren't immune to.

Ignoring Martin's objections, she drew upon what little magicka she had left. She focused on the atronach, on each individual rock and pebble that made it up. Then she cast the spell, hitting it with as much telekinetic energy as she could muster. The atronach slowed, struggling as she pulled the rocks apart, separating them, baring the sphere of electricity that made up the heart. Ivar shot a worried glance her way before realizing what she was doing. He smirked, turned to face the atronach, and threw his dagger. Blade over pommel it spun, embedding itself into the lightning sphere. There was a burst of strange thunder that split the air, a flash of white light, and then the lightning was gone, the dagger falling to the ground.

Rosemonde let the rocks fall, wincing. Everything hurt, and her vision was fading again. Quicker, this time. She had used up the last of her magicka to tear that thing apart, and now she was paying the price. "That was... probably a bad idea," she muttered.

Then everything went black.

* * *

**A/N -So that's where we left off last time! Anything from here on out will be completely new, never-seen-before. I'm both excited and terrified of what that means.  
**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.**


	15. Skingrad

**A/N - So, this is the first technically-new chapter, and sort of the chapter I was working on when reality hit me like a back of bricks and I had to internet-vanish. So this is something completely new. On the bright side, _this is something completely new_. On the dark side (which has cookies), I'm worried that my writing quality may go down, considering. Well, I guess there's only one way to find out!**

**Ailkaro - What is it with me any my amusing typos? Now I'm imagining Ivar in an afro. Gods, what my imagination does to me. It's been fixed, thank you for pointing it out! :D  
**

**The Detective - I have to admit, when you said I had Martin's characterization down perfectly, I nearly squee'd. Anyone who's around me for more than ten seconds knows that I am a huge Martin fangirl, so that's pretty much a compliment of the highest order right there. And don't worry, future plot points will address Rosemonde's competency in battle (or lack thereof.) Hells, part of it gets addressed in this chapter.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

_Rosemonde had to do this. She had lost so much, seen so many people she had called her friends turn her back on her when she needed them the most. She couldn't turn away now, or it was all a waste. She needed to gain something from this.  
_

_She wasn't sure what she was going to gain, or what she even wanted. Power? Control? Proof that she was better? No, she cared for none of these things.  
_

_What Rosemonde wanted was strength. The strength to control her own magic more than she already could, to manipulate it to even the finest of details. Healing the slightest of wounds, plucking a speck of dust off the floor from across the room. She wanted self-control, precision. She wanted to hone her talents, not magnify them.  
_

_But no matter how many times she explained that, they wouldn't listen. They condemned her, threw her from the guild. She could understand why. Necromancy was a risky school of magic at the best of times, and the treat of necromancers returning didn't exactly ease anyone's doubts. And then there was Traven. He was the one who had banned Necromancy, not seeing its potential.  
_

_But she could. If she could raise the dead, if she could learn to control the dead... maybe, just maybe, she could do more.  
_

_That was why she had raided the tomb. That was why she had brought the book she had taken from the necromancer's cave she and a few others had raided several months prior. That was why she was standing in front of the dessicated corpse of a long-dead man, concentrating as much energy as she needed. She knew the risks. Too little magicka and the spell would fail, only leaving her weaker. Too much magicka, and she wouldn't be able to control what happened next. She especially worried about the last one; a failed spell was nothing compared to an uncontrollable undead horror roaming the streets of the Imperial City.  
_

_She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and letting her energy flow through her veins, gather in her palms, ready to imbue the corpse with life at her whim. She released the spell. She felt the magicka drain from her body, leaving her weary. She heard a slight stir and an inhuman groan. She opened her eyes and looked down, only to let out a slight gasp as she saw the corpse slowly begin to rise from the table, a rough moan escaping from its decaying lips.  
_

_She backed away, keeping a wary eye on it. Raising it was one thing. Controlling it would be another thing entirely.  
_

_There was the sound of loud creaking as the ancient wooden door was pushed open from outside the crypt, letting a patch of blinding light find its way into the darkness. A familiar voice called out. "Rosemonde? Rosemonde, is that you down there?"  
_

_Damn it! "I told you not to follow me!"  
_

_"What are you... By the Nine Divines!"  
_

_"Wait! I can explain, trust me!"_

_"Rosemonde, what have you done?_

_"I... wait, no! No!"  
_

* * *

Rosemonde woke up. It wasn't the sort of waking up where you sit upright with a start, eyes wide and heart pounding. It was the kind of waking up where you become aware of your surroundings, but you don't move, whether out of laziness or sheer exhaustion depends. Granted, she couldn't exactly do the sit-upright-with-a-start kind of waking up, as she was neither in a bed nor laying down. She was being carried in someone's arms, her head resting against their chest. She was more than a bit confused.

She was less concerned about that, though, and more concerned about the dream. She had hoped that she could at least try to put those memories behind her, that she could at least try to move on. She guessed not. _But it was just a dream, right?_ she asked herself. _A memo__ry. Memories can't hurt you, Rosemonde._

But it _did_ hurt, as painful as it was to admit it. And through the pain, a small voice in the back of her head spoke up, snide and cold. _Did you really think you could run from your past, Rosemonde?_

Well, yes, she had sort of thought that, but...

_You can't escape what you did. You dabbled in death._

She hadn't thought anyone would actually get hurt, though! She hadn't _wanted_ this. That was why she told him not to follow her. If only he had listened... She forced herself to focus on something else. In particular, the reason she had fainted in the cavern. She had a tendency to use more magicka than necessary, yes, though not for a lack of trying. Fainting was rare, though._  
_

_You're not a good mage._

She ignored the voice in the back of her head. She had always depended on her magicka to keep her moving, often in lieu of sleeping. It had its consequence, of course, but she generally knew when to quit. She just... _needed_ to use all of her mgicka back there. They would have all been killed if she hadn't, right?

_You're not a good person_.

The voice wasn't helping.

_I'm not here to help. I'm here to tell you the truth. You think you can be a hero? Saving people when they need to be saved?_

She had thought no such thing. She made no false claims of heroism, because in this the voice was right. She _wasn't_ a hero. She was just a woman who had ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and had done what she could to accommodate it. There was nothing heroic about it.

_Then why do you do it? Why do you risk your life for people, when you know that in the end, you'll fail, and everything you've done will be for nothing._

Oh for the love of...

_You killed a man, Rosemonde. Stood by and watched as your creation tore him apart. Where was your heroism then, little Rosie? Hm?_

Thankfully, a familiar voice from several feet away cut off the inner monologues of her self-loathing. "How's she doing?" Ivar asked. "She's not dead, is she? Because she's the only one here who's actually talked to this Jauffre fellow, and I doubt he'll exactly trust me."

Wait. If Ivar was several feet away, then who was carrying...

Oh. It took all of her willpower not to blush right then and there.

Confirming her fears, another familiar voice spoke up, this time coming from much closer. "You're her friend and that's how you react when she's injured?" Martin said. There was more than a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"We're not friends. We're... odd acquaintances. Just answer the question."

Martin sighed quietly. "She's fine," Rosemonde heard him say. "She was talking a bit in her sleep, but not anymore." There was a long pause. "Do you know who Sondilar is? She was saying that name and... she sounded scared."

Rosemonde's heart all but stopped. Damn it! She hadn't... he couldn't know. If he knew, if anyone knew, they'd never trust her.

"Hm," Ivar said. From the tone of his voice, she could just imagine a small, arrogant smile on his face. Of course, he always hadthat look on his face. "I do remember hearing something about that name. An Altmer fellow, murdered in a crypt in the Imperial City. Ooh, maybe _that's_ why she's in prison. Watched her friend die and took a bit of revenge. Yes, that sounds about right..."

Guilt relief washed over Rosemonde. They didn't know. Well, not fully.

"She doesn't seem like the vengeful sort, though," Martin pointed out.

"Funny," Ivar said. "One of my marks said I didn't seem like the killing type about two seconds before I slit his throat. You'd be surprised what you can hide about yourself if you're good enough. Besides, I've seen her in battle. And I'm talking actual battle, not against wisps where the only thing she could do is sit there and cast useless spells. For such a scrawny person, she's fairly capable of holding her own... well, she would be, if she learned how to avoid an ambush. I swear, it's like she's willfully _blind_ to anything not in her line of sight."

Rosemonde wanted to punch Ivar. She wanted to punch him so much.

"How long until we reach Skingrad?" Martin asked.

"About an hour or so. then we can take little Rosie here to the Mage's Guild and figure out what exactly happened to her."

"No," Rosemonde said before she could stop herself.

There was a pause. "Rosemonde?" Martin asked. "Are you awake?"

"No, she's sleep-talking again," Ivar said. She could almost hear him roll his eyes. "That was her being lucid. Glad to see you've returned to the world of the fully conscious, Rosie."

"Don't call me Rosie." Rosemonde opened her eyes and glared at him. He was holding her staff in one hand and the pack in another. "And we're not going to the Mage's Guild. I'm fine, I just... had a few magicka problems, that's all."

She winced as Martin set her down on her feet, grabbing his shoulder for support. The priest glanced at her nervously. "Are you sure you're all right? You don't look well..."

"I'm fine, Martin, don't worry about me. Like I said, magicka problems. Drained myself a little too much and... well, you saw what happened."

Ivar shrugged. "Well, you're alive, so I'm not too concerned. Come on, we're stopping at Skingrad. Room and board and such. I'm pretty sure we could all use a decent night's sleep." He spun on his heel and started walking down that road, not sparing either Rosemonde or Martin a second glance.

"Are you sure you're feeling well?" Martin repeated as the two of them started walking.

"Are you going to ask that until I admit that I'm not, in fact, feeling well?"

The corner of Martin's lips turned upwards in a wry smile. "Yes."

Rosemonde surpressed a laugh. "All right, then. If you really must know, apart from the typical dizziness, I'm feeling horribly embarrassed at having fainted when I did, given that I haven't done that in nearly two years, and there's the lingering issue from a... a nightmare I had."

"Sondilar," Martin murmured.

Rosemonde looked up at him, feigning shock. "How did you know that name?" _Because I up and said it in my sleep. I really must work on that._

"You were muttering it in your sleep. Is that a friend of yours?"

"Was. He... he died. He and I heard rumors of a necromancer raiding graves in the Imperial City, we went to go investigate, and... he was killed in the resulting fight. The necromancer escaped." She didn't want to lie to him. She wanted him to trust her. But if she just out and _said,_ "I watched as my necromantic creation tore my best friend to pieces," he wouldn't trust her. Neither would Ivar, though she cared a bit less about what _he_ though of her.

But there was no distrust in Martin's eyes as he looked at her. Instead there was... Sadness? Sympathy? _Empathy?_ No, that last one couldn't be right. But she couldn't tell either way. "We... we should just get a move on," she said, moving slightly quicker. "Ivar's probably waiting for us at the Skingrad gate already. Heh."

It was only when the two of them reached Skingrad that Rosemonde noticed that tears running down her cheeks.

* * *

"Ah, Skingrad!" Ivar exclaimed, sighing with satisfaction as he leaned against the nearest building and tossing Rosemonde her staff. The Breton caught it with a look of surprise on her face. "Where the wine is good, meat is fresh and everyone wants to kill everyone!"

He had done a job of sorts here. It wasn't in the same manner as the other jobs, though. He had actually just been traveling through Skingrad on his way to visit his parents several months ago when a dark-haired Bosmer by the name of Glarthir had approached him. Glarthir had wanted him to spy on several people around the town, believing them to be part of a conspiracy against them. Ivar had thought him crazy, and rightfully so, but he was getting paid a small fortune to watch these people, so he watched. When he finally reported that none of them were spying on Glarthir, the other Bosmer had accused him of being part of the conspiracy as well, and had tried to attack him. Ivar had not taken kindly to that.

Breaking himself from rather fond memories of gutting Glarthir, he glanced over at the other two. "You two see if you can get a couple rooms for you two at one of the inns. West Weald, Two Sisters', doesn't matter to me. I'll be around in a couple hours for suppertime, and then I'll be off for the night. I've got a place of sorts to stay for the night, so don't you two worry about me."

He didn't wait for an answer before running off. Anvil was his favorite city by far, followed closely by Cheydinhal, but if it had to choose a third, it would be Skingrad. It wasn't as warm or as sunny as the others, but it there was just something about it.

His instincts brought him to the street where the richest people in the city lived. Was it the tall, fancy houses, standing above the others in their almost regal glory?

He stopped in front of a house. Was it the size of the city in comparison to the relatively small amount of people there, making for quite a couple empty streets that he could have all to himself?

He slipped the Skeleton Key into the house's lock, smirking as he watched it glow and rattle. Was it the abandoned, once-haunted house that used to belong to a necromancer who achiever lich-dom and hung around for a bit before Ivar came, cleared him and the ghosts out, and claimed the house for himself?

He liked to think it was a healthy mix of all three.

As he slipped into the house - which looked far worse for wear on the inside than it did on the outside - and bounded up the creaky stairs two at a time, he momentarily thought back to the Sigil Stone he had pulled from the Oblivion gate. _It's a right shame I left it at Kvatch,_ he thought, reaching his bedroom and tossing his pack into the floor with almost reckless abandon as he strode up to his bed. _Could have stored it here for a bit before selling it._

With a yawn, he sat down on the mattress, disrupting the dust that sat there and sending it flying into the air in a sort of makeshift cloud. He had a few hours before he joined Rosemonde and Martin for supper, and he intended to spend it the best say he knew how.

Sleeping.

* * *

A few hours later, Ivar found Martin and Rosemonde sitting at a table in the Two Sisters' Lodge, both in surprisingly good moods. Rosemonde was laughing about something, and Martin had an small, incredulous grin on his face. "You're kidding. You have to be," he was saying. "How did she forget where she sent him?"

"I have no idea!" Rosemonde said, still laughing. "But I went to Bleak Flats Cave, dealt with the... the things there, and there Erthor was, alive and well, if a bit worn out. Oh, and you can be sure that he had a few choice words with Adrienne when we got back. Think he started speaking a different language at one point. Couldn't be sure, though. After a while, the indignant screaming started to blur together"

Martin shook his head. "I... I'm sorry, but I'm still have a bit of trouble believing this. Adrienne Berene actually forgot that she had ordered one of her own guildmates to a nearby cave?"

"Yes! And my task for earning my recommendation was essentially reminding her that she did it! And don't think I didn't remind her of _that_ fact." She glanced up at Ivar as he approached the table, her eyes bright with mirth. He didn't think he had ever seen her this upbeat before. "Oh, there you are, Ivar! I was wondering if you were going to join us."

"I overslept," Ivar muttered as he slid into the only empty chair at the table. "What are you two laughing about?"

"The task I had to do to get my Skingrad recommendation," Rosemonde explained. "I swear, the only thing funnier then _that_ was getting my recommendation from Bruma, and oh is _that_ ever a story."

Martin raised an eyebrow, still smiling. "Really? What did you have to do?"

Rosemonde leaned forward, her eyes glinting with eagerness. Before she could start her story, however, Ivar spoke. "As fun as storytelling sounds right now, where is our food? I did mention I was joining you for supper, and if there's no supper..." He stood up again.

"Oh, sit _down_!" Rosemonde sighed in clear exasperation, grabbing him by the forearm and pulling him back into his seat. "Mog gra-Mograkh's off getting some more wine from Tamika, she won't be back for a while. In the meantime, sit, be sociable, tell some tales!" She blinked. "Actually, don't. I'd rather not hear the details of your killings."

"Must I? Really? I've got better things to do." Sleeping more, for one.

"_Yes_," Rosemonde said firmly. "Being nice for one evening isn't going to kill you.

_No, but it might kill someone else._ Sighing, Ivar leaving back against the back of his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "All right, then" he said. "I'll stay. Now, I must admit I am curious about this Bruma reccomendation story you mentioned..."

* * *

**A/N - Look at all this filler. Look at it. Well, it's not exactly filler since it sets up more of what exactly happened back in the prologue. But the second half is pretty much just filler, yeah.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated!  
**


	16. Priory

**A/N - I just realized I'm only a few chapters away from my favorite (and least favorite) chapter. Emotions are abound, folks. Also, I tweaked a couple details about certain events because reasons. Also, I think this is the quickest I've ever updated a chapter. Hot dang.  
**

**Ailkaro - Thank you! :D And don't worry, pointing out typos is the least rude thing I can imagine, really. I write at a very high speed, so I do end up making typos left and right. It's quite funny, really, when it isn't being a bother. So trust me, I really so appreciate the pointing out of any typos I missed. And while that is the majority of Rosemonde's backstory, there is a bit more that needs to be fleshed out. It will be later, trust me.**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.  
**

* * *

_The First of Hearthfire, 3E433_

* * *

All in all, the three of them spent two days on the road. They hadn't stopped at the Imperial City, much to Ivar's insistence, and had instead simply moved on, turning from the Gold Road to the Black road as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Ivar had taken to scouting ahead, with Rosemonde and Martin lingering behind, often talking about rather trivial matters such as magic. Thus, it was only natural that Ivar was the first to see Weynon Priory. He hadn't even been actively trying to see it, really; he had merely been looking around for any possible alchemical ingredients. He had come across some nightshade as they had left Skingrad, and had hoped for more, as nightshade made a _very_ potent poison.

As soon as his gaze fell upon the priory, though, Ivar immediately dropped all thoughts of flower-searching. "Look!" he said, pointing. "The priory!" By Sithis, he'd thought they'd _never_ reach it. Rosemonde had brought up the prospect of just walking straight through the Great Forest to reach Chorrol several times near Skingrad, but Ivar had insisted that they take the road.

"Less chance of getting attacked if we stay on the main road," he had said. "Besides, there's a lot of interesting things in the Great Forest to explore, and I don't think any of us want another Sandstone, hmm?"

"And whose fault is _that_?" Rosemonde had said.

"Clearly Slythe Seringi's."

Now, Ivar was very much metaphorically kicking himself not taking the option of a shorter path when Rosemonde had brought it up. He had gone on long walks on his own, of course, plenty of times, often forgoing sleep to reach there in time. But he had always been _alone_ when he had done it, and that was a luxury he did not have this time. There were times where he forgot that _he_ was the one tagging along with Rosemonde and Martin, as it so often seemed to be the other way around. They were talkative, slow, and bothersome, and Ivar definitely regretted coming along in the first place. Why _would_ he do such a thing?

He had to admit, it was his curiosity. If Martin was the Emperor's son, as Rosemonde claimed, he wanted to be around to see what arose from it. Would the Elder Council accept such a bastard heir as Emperor? Would _Tamriel_ accept it? Would Martin be a good Emperor, or would he make a mistake that would bring destruction for Tamriel? Either way, Ivar wanted to see what would happen.

"So," he said, pausing and turning around. "Rosemonde, what's this Jauffre fellow like?"

The Breton shrugged. She had tied her dark hair back up into the loose and messy knot it had been when they had met in Kvatch. "He's the Grandmaster of the Blades. That's really all I know about him. We didn't exactly take time to get to know one another, Ivar. I gave him the Amulet, and he sent me to Kvatch."

"Hmm." Ivar wasn't eager about meeting a man he knew nearly nothing about. One of the joys of being part of the Dark Brotherhood was _knowledge_. Ivar knew many things about every person he had killed for the Dark Brotherhood, including those he hadn't. In fact, chances were that he had known more about Martin than Rosemonde had when he had gone to try to kill the priest, even if her knowledge was somewhat more important to the relative safety of Tamriel.

But Jauffre? He knew as much as Rosemonde had just said. And while he hated to admit it... that worried him a little. He was outside his comfort area with this, and he knew it. "Great," he sighed. "Fantastic. Is there anything useful anyone has to say before we go meet this Jau-"

He froze. There was someone running down the road behind him. And judging by the sound of the footsteps, they didn't plan on slowing down. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he stepped to the side, sticking out his foot and tripping whoever it was. He watched as a Dunmer in shepherd's clothing came crashing to the ground, letting out a cry for shock. "You're in a bit of a hurry," he remarked calmly.

"People... at the Priory! Killing everyone!" the Dunmer said, sounding increasingly panicked by the word. "I saw them taking to Prior Maborel... they had red robes, they seemed like mages or travelers, but then... one of them pulled a weapon out of thin air and cut him down! Right there!"

Red robes? Weapons from nowhere? Ivar swore under his breath. "Get going," he snarled to the Dunmer. "We'll handle this."

"You don't have to tell me twice!" the Dunmer exclaimed, getting to his feet and running off past Martin and Rosemonde. "How did they find us?" Rosemonde asked. "Ivar!"

"Don't look at me! These people are as much my enemies as yours, Rosie!" He unsheathed his dagger, twirling it in his hands. "You two stay here."

"Wait!" Martin exclaimed. "What's going on? Who's attacking the Priory?"

"The exact same people who drove a blade through your father's heart, _dear Emperor_," Ivar said. In any other circumstances, he would have reveled in Martin's horrified expression. But right now, he didn't have the time. "No doubt they're here to finish the job they started at Kvatch. Like I said, you two stay here. I'll go deal with our little friends."

And then he was running off, ignoring Rosemonde's objections.

* * *

Some part of him, some small part of him, had hoped that the Dunmer had been lying, that this had all been some sort of joke on his part. Ivar would have found it quite funny, if only for the reactions of the other two.. As it stood now, there was nothing funny about a bunch of mad zealots who dared called themselves assassins attacking Weynon Priory.

He sank his blade into gap between the helmet and armor of the one he was grappling with, the dagger finding its way through flesh and straight to bone. As he pulled his blade out pushed the dying zealot away, he pushed all thoughts of anger and humor away. What he though about the situation didn't matter. What did matter was taking care of the zealots, plain and simple.

He heard footsteps. Not wasting a second, he ducked behind the mace that was swung at his head, slipping under the zealot's arm around them and grabbing them, wrapping one arm around the zealot's shoulders and grabbing their head with the other. This one wasn't wearing any armor, just the red robes, proving themself to be an Imperial woman. "You're very loud," he murmured. The zealot thrashed in response, and Ivar tightened his grip. "Ah, ah, ah," he said. "I could snap your neck in an instant. I probably will, if you don't tell me why you're here."

The woman laughed coldly. "I do not fear death," she spat.

Ivar shrugged as best he could. "All right, then. It's your neck." He then proceeded to do exactly what he had threatened and snapped her neck, letting her lifeless body drop to the ground. "Now," he murmured, "if I were the Grandmaster of the Blades, where would I be?"

The sound of combat in the nearby small chapel provided his answer. "Fantastic," he muttered as he made his way to the chapel and shouldered the door open. "More zealots."

When he actually entered the chapel, though, he found something he was not expecting. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, of course, but it most certainly wasn't an old Breton monk wielding around a sword similar to the ones the Blades back at the prison were wielding, successfully fighting three armor-clad zealots at once. Ivar could only watch, dumbstruck, as the monk disposed of the zealots with surprising ease. It was only when the monk turned to him that Ivar was shocked out of his stupor. "I'm a friend of Rosemonde's!" he exclaimed. "The scrawny Breton who delivered the Amulet. You're Brother Jauffre, I hope."

The monk lowered his sword, but didn't sheathe it. His gaze flicked from Ivar's face to his armor and back. "How do I know you're not with the assassins?"

"Well, for one, they aren't assassins," Ivar said. "Assassins actually have more skill than 'run wildly into the fray and hope it works.' Secondly, I can prove it. Rosie and your precious Septim bastard are down the road, waiting for us."

Behind him, outside, muffled by the door, there was a cry of pain and a familiar voice shouting something in anger. "Or they followed me," Ivar sighed running a hand through his short fair hair. Honestly, was the concept of 'stay' that confusing for them? _Really?_ He turned around and opened the door, readying his blade. He wholly expected the find the two of them on the ground, a zealot standing over them, while he would have to make a daring rescue and be lauded as a hero _again_.

He was left surprised for the second time that day when he found Rosemonde and Martin perfectly unharmed. The cry of pain had come from the zealot that she had pinned against the side of the Priory with telekinetic energy.

"How did you know where we were going to be?" Rosemonde demanded.

The zealot was laughing. It wasn't a cold, bitter laugh like the Imperial woman Ivar had tried to question not five minutes earlier, this zealot actually found the situation hilarious. "We didn't!"he said, still giggling.

He could almost hear everything fall into place in Rosemonde's mind as a look of realization appeared on her face. "You're here for the Amulet!" she exclaimed.

Jauffre shook his head as he approached. "That still doesn't make any sense. How did they know the Amulet would be here?"

"Same way they knew the Emperor's secret escape route, I'd wager," Ivar said.

Rosemonde had let the zealot drop to the ground, confusion evident on her face once more. He struggled to their feet, only to find himself with a dagger in his chest; specifically, the silver dagger that Ivar had just thrown at him. Jauffre, meanwhile, had turned to Martin. "My lord, are you all right? I heard about what happened at Kvatch, and..."

Martin looked very uncomfortable at being called "my lord." Ivar made an immediate mental note to refer to him as nothing else. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm all right. You don't need to worry about me."

"Excellent, good, we're all doing well," Ivar said before Jauffre could speak. "What about the Amulet?"

"By the Nine..." Jauffre shook his head. "If the Amulet of Kings was the target of the attack... We need to go and see if it is safe."

"I'll go," Rosemonde offered.

"We'll go together. But I fear the worst."

Ivar expected the worst. He hoped, however, he would be surprised for a third time that day. After all, they had killed all the zealots, so there was no one to take the Amulet...

* * *

"It's gone!"

Ivar wasn't surprised. "Well doesn't that just figure," he muttered as the Grandmaster of the Blade left the hidden room that he had hidden the Amulet in. _First the Emperor, now the Amulet. I'd wager that Martin would be dead, too, if it weren't for me and Rosie_.

"How can it be _gone_?" Rosemonde asked. "We took care of all the assassins, didn't we?"

"How many times do I have to tell you, they're zealots, not assassins!" Ivar said. "Stop mixing up those madmen with an actually respectable career."

"I fail to see how killing people for pay could be considered 'respectable work,'" Jauffre snapped.

"It takes skill to kill someone and make it so that no one knows it's you," Ivar said, pushing himself away from the wall he had been leaning against. "And I assure you, an assassin would do a far better job at protecting something than the Blades, if this is any indication." He gestured to Martin. "For example."

He was not going to hide his feelings on the matter. He knew this was wholly Jauffre's fault. The man could not keep a bauble safe, and he was the Grandmaster of the Emperor's bodyguards? _Pathetic_, he thought. He could see Rosemonde glaring at him, clearly wanting him to show some respect to the monk. Well, too bad for her. He did not respect _incompeten_ce.

Jauffre made a point of ignoring Ivar, though there was something different in his eyes: a hint of guilt. Good, maybe his words would have some sort of effect on the man.

"Semantics aside," Rosemonde said, "how did they get the Amulet away from the Priory without us noticing?"

Only a few moments of thinking passed before Ivar figured he had an answer. "Jauffre, who was that Dunmer? The one in the shepherd's clothing?"

"Eronor? He's the priory shepherd, and takes care of the horses. He started working here only a few weeks ago." Jauffre's eyes widened. "You don't think he..."

"Seemingly innocent shepherd? Easy way to get the Amulet away without people noticing. Use your trust for their own gain." Perhaps these zealots had a smidgen of intelligence after all. Were they not on the same side, Ivar would possible consider having a bit of respect for them.

If it were possible for Rosemonde to look more guilty, shocked and terrified at the same time, Ivar couldn't think of it. "Y-you mean..." she stammered, "you mean the Amulet was within our grasp and we didn't realize it?"

"Yes." Ivar could understand why she felt that way. He felt embarrassed that he had missed it in the first place, that he had let the Dunmer run off without bothering to question him further. Was he losing his touch?

Jauffre had turned to Martin. "My lord..."

"You don't have to call me that. My name is Martin." The priest looked visibly shaken by the previous events. Again, Ivar would be reveling in it if the circumstance wasn't so serious. He decided to store that memory away for later, though.

Jauffre had continued speaking. "...Martin, then. You can't stay here. It's not safe. The assassins may be gone now, but they will be back when they hear of your survival."

Martin looked worried. "Where do you suggest we go, then?"

"Cloud Ruler Temple," Jauffre said. "The fortress of the Blades. Nowhere will be truly safe from the power arrayed against us, but we must play for time while we try to get the Amulet back, and Cloud Ruler Temple is the safest place in Cyrodiil. A few men can hold it against an Army."

"Hold on," Ivar said, "where is this fortress?"

"In the Jerall mountains, north of Bruma."

Bruma. The cold, harsh city not too far south from Skyrim, home to Nords, mead, and snow.

..._Well, that's just fantastic, isn't it?_

* * *

**A/N - I always wondered how they managed to get the Amulet out of Weynon Priory without anyone noticing. Of course, I doubt Eronor was the culprit in-game, but hey, it's fanfiction, right?**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	17. Temple

**A/N - Oh gods, next chapters is THE FEELS CHAPTER and I can't with it. I just can't. It's gonna give me all these feels, man. All of them.**

**Ailkaro - Fun fact: I actually fudged up my very first Oblivion playthrough by completely screwing up the savegame (it was a Rosemodne palythrough). Thanks for pointing out the typo for me! :D And yeah, I really wanted to make Eronor the culprit because it would just make so much sense. "Escape the Priory by acting the scared victim!" Totally my headcanon now.**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

_The Second of Heartfire, 3E433_

* * *

Rosemonde knew this was her fault.

There was no way around it. There were dozens of ways she could have avoided this. If she hadn't stopped to help Dar-Ma in Hackdirt, if she hadn't followed Ivar into Sandstone Cavern, if they had taken the shortcut through the Great Forest...

Some part if her, some rational part of her, told her that this couldn't have been her fault. The enemy, whoever they were, were always one step ahead of them. They had known where the Emperor was and had managed to kill him. They had known where Martin was and had _opened an Oblivion gate_. They had known where the Amulet was and had launched an attack, escaping with a very clever ruse and taking the Amulet with them. Despite what Ivar was constantly saying these assassins, zealots, cultists, _whoever they were_... They were effective.

_Besides_, her rational part of her said, _would it have been better to have let Dar-Ma and Ivar die?_

She thought of Dar-Ma surrounding by the Brethren, screaming and crying. She thought of Ivar's corpse in the place of Slythe Seringi's, broken and burnt at the bottom of the chasm, with the storm atronach towering over him. She suppressed a shudder. No, she was glad she had been there when she could. But what cost did helping them bring?

Rosemonde absent-mindedly ran her fingers through the mane of her chestnut mare. She had turned to the Weynon Priory stables to see the mare well-cared for and well-fed, if more than a little bothered that she had been left in a corral again. She wondered who the mare belonged to, who had put her in the Imperial stables before Rosemonde had stolen her. Had they been a guard? Merchant? A courier, working every day just to get food on the table for his family? A new wave of guilt joined the first.

What cost did her actions bring?

* * *

Bruma was very cold.

Rosemonde didn't remember much of her visit here for this exact reason. She didn't care much for the cold or the snow, and so she had simply gotten her recommendation and left quickly. Her task here had been an odd one, to say the least; the head of the guild hall, Jeanne Frasoric, had wanted her to find a missing guildmate. It had turned out, though, that the guildmate wasn't actually missing, but was playing a very elaborate prank on Jeanne involving an invisibility spell. The "missing" member, a Khajiit named J'skar, had refused to stop the current prank unless Rosemonde helped him and his friend Volanaro with another prank. So Rosemonde had reluctantly helped them steal Jeanne's book, returning the favor by dispelling every spell that J'skar and Volanaro tried to cast later that day.

It had been a very odd guild hall. Maybe it had something to do with the cold.

The four of them hadn't actually gone inside the city walls, having walked around it instead, but even that brought back memories

"Damn!" Ivar swore, his hands tightening on the reins of the paint horse he was riding. "Could it get any colder?"

"At least you're wearing something somewhat warm," Rosemonde shot back. She was still wearing the rather thin olive shirt, and it did nothing to keep out the cold. "Besides," she said, "we're nearly there." She nodded at the uphill path they were traveling, and the Bosmer's gaze flitted to the top of the mountain. He didn't say anything, just looked down at his hands and grumbled something unintelligible

It wasn't long before Cloud Ruler Temple came into view, and Rosemonde couldn't help but gape. It was a massive fortress, watching over nearby Bruma like a soldier watched over their city. Rosemonde felt a bit intimidated. No wonder Jauffre considered this place the safest in Cyrodiil.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Martin and Ivar staring up at the temple as well, though their expressions were notably different. Martin's was a look of awe; Ivar, on the other hand, was starting at it with a vaguely unimpressed expression on his face. "What, not big enough for you, Ivar?" she teased.

"Size means nothing. It could be bigger than the White-Gold tower and it still would depend on how secure it is. I _do_ hope these walls aren't the only security this place have. Anyone with suitable equipment could scale them." His green gaze focused on Jauffre, who was getting off of his horse.

"Of course not," Jauffre said. "Almost every Blade in Cyrodiil resides within these walls. Our numbers may not be many, but these are the best-trained soldiers in Tamriel." He began to approach the gate.

Rosemonde could have sworn Ivar was rolling his eyes as he got off of the paint horse, her and Martin following suit. She didn't much care, though, for she could hear shouting from with Cloud Ruler Temple's walls, and the massive fortress gates began to slowly open right before her eyes. A Redguard man in the same almost-ceremonial armor the Blades in the prison wore ran out through the still-opening gates, skidding to a halt in the snow. "Grandmaster!" he exclaimed, nodded respectfully. "What brings you here?"

Jauffre gestured to Martin. "Cyrus, this is the Emperor's son, Martin Septim, as well as the woman who delivered the Amulet to me at the behest of the Emperor. We have brought him here to keep him safe from the assassins that pursue us."

Rosemonde heart Ivar mutter something along the lines of " they never remember the elf."

The Blade didn't question what Jauffre said. He turned to Martin and bowed. "My lord, allow me to welcome you to Cloud Ruler Temple. We have not had the honor of an Emperor's visit in many years."

Martin had turned bright red, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Ah, thank you! The honor is mine."

"Cyrus, go alert the the other Blades to meet in the courtyard," Jauffre ordered. The Redguard nodded and ran back into the fortress, running up the long stairs that awaited them. "Come, Martin," Jauffre said. "Your Blades are waiting to greet you."

He turned and walked through the now fully-opened gates, leaving the other three standing there. "What's the matter, my lord?" Ivar asked, smirking at Martin. "It's just a few of the most heavily trained men in Cyrodiil who have sworn themselves to the service of you and your bloodline, after all."

Rosemonde shot the Bosmer the filthiest glare she could conjured up. The cold numbing her muscles, it probably wasn't all that fierce. Ivar merely stared at her in response. "Come on," she said, placing a hand on Martin's shoulder. "Best not keep them waiting, eh?"

Martin nodded. "Right, of course. I'm sorry, this is just a lot to take in."

Rosemonde forced a smile. "I understand, believe me." She grabbed the chestnut mare's reins and began to lead her past the gate, only pausing once they were inside the fortress walls. "You should go first, Martin. It's you they're expecting.

Martin nodded, stepping forward and walking up the stairs, Rosemonde and Ivar following behind. Sure enough, by the time they had reached the last step, the Blades had already gathered in the courtyard. Rosemonde glanced nervously at Ivar, but he had disappeared. _Stupid Bosmer._

Jauffre was waiting at the top of the stairs, and no sooner did Martin reach the top before he started talking, addressing the Blades in from of him. "Blades!" he said. "Dark times are upon us! The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch. The Empire is in chaos. But there is yet hope. Here stands Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!"

The sounds of voices filled the air. "_Hail_, Dragon Born! _Hail,_ Martin Septim!"

Jauffre turned to Martin. "Your Highness, the Blades are at your disposal. You will be safe here until we can retrieve the Amulet and you can take up the throne."

"I..." Martin appeared to hesitate. "Jauffre. All of you. I know you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best. But this is all new to me. I'm not used to giving speeches. But I wanted you to know that I appreciate your welcome here. I... I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days." A pause. "That's it. Thank you."

Jauffre smiled. "Thank you, Martin." He turned to a nearby Nord in Blade's armor. "Well, we'd best get back to our duties, eh, Captain?"

As the Blades began to disperse, Martin turned to Rosemonde, an embarrassed smile on his face. "Not much of a speech, was it?"

"It was fine," Rosemonde said, offering a smile in return.

"No it wasn't."

Rosemonde jumped and whirled around to find Ivar standing behind her, a thoroughly bored expression on his face. "I mean, as passionate speeches go, I've heard better," the Bosmer said, shrugging idly. "Sorry about disappearing. Don't like having that many guards looking even in my general direction, much less at me."

"Don't you have something better to do?" Rosemonde snapped.

"Yes. Like sleep, for example. Haven't had a decent night's rest since that fiasco down in prison." He yawned. "I'm going to go find out where people sleep and then I am going to steal someone's bed. I'll see you tomorrow, then, Rosie. And a good night to you, _my lord_."

He turned and walked away, vanishing as he did. Rosemonde sighed as she turned back to Martin. "Ignore him, he's an-" She stopped when she saw the troubled look in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"'My lord...'" he repeated, shaking his head. "The Blades hailing me as Martin Septim... I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I'd be dead if it weren't for you. But everyone expects me to know what to do, how to behave. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do... and I haven't the faintest idea."

"I'm sure they understand that," Rosemonde said. "Besides, I think that's what the Elder Council's for, isn't it? Knowing what to do, I mean."

Martin laughed hesitantly, running a hand through his hair. "I hope you're right, my friend."

_As do I. _"Well," Rosemonde said firmly, wincing as an icy gust of wind blew past them, "at any rate, none of it will matter if we end up freezing to death out here. Come on, let's get inside and find someplace a bit warmer."

* * *

Ivar had counted approximately fourteen fatal flaws in the temple that a skilled assassin could exploit. _It's a good thing we aren't facing skilled assassins, then,_ he had thought as he had tracked down where the barracks were - West wing, bottom floor - and took a bedroll as his own. He had fallen asleep within moments, welcoming the quiet.

It was only when he woke up hours later that he realized it was a bit _too_ quiet.

Rosemonde lay in the bedroll next to him, looking more frail than ever. Ivar reached over and prodded her in the shoulder. "Hey, Rosie, wake up."

She didn't move.

Ivar blinked and got to his feet. All of the Blades that were sleeping were unnaturally still as well, bringing about an eerie feeling and a chill down Ivar's throat. He drew his dagger, looking around for something, _anything_, that could explain this.

A low, rough voice split the silence. "So this is what you have been doing recently."

_What's he doing here?_ Ivar knew that voice well. So much for "safest place in Cyrodiil." "Lucien," he said, maintaining an air of cheerfulness. "What brings you around? How's your week been? Better than mine, I hope."

"Skip the pleasantries," the voice growled. There was a shift of magic in the air, and an Imperial man in black robes appeared before Ivar. Even with his hood obscuring his face, Ivar could still feel the Imperial's dark eyes boring into him, judging. Silently judging. The worst kind of judging, really. "Perhaps you'd like to explain to me why one of my best Executioners failed two contracts and has refused to report back to the Sanctuary."

"I... I haven't _refused_," Ivar said. "I just got a bit sidetracked. Having to drag the Emperor's bastard and a scrawny Breton to Chorrol does tend to take up a bit of one's time, Lucien."

"Apparently." Lucien didn't move.

Ivar shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sure you didn't come all the way here just to tell me I'm an irresponsible bastard," he said. "If that were the case, you'd have gotten Vicente to send someone from the Sanctuary to do it. Why are you really here?"

He felt the Speaker's gaze intensify, and couldn't help but wince. "I am afraid there is a... situation with the Cheydinhal Sanctuary," he said.

"...Oh?"

"There is a traitor among us, dear Brother."

* * *

**A/N - Like I said. _Feels_.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	18. Business

**A/N - Sorry about the wait, guys, I just took an internet hiatus for a short while. But I'm back, and ready to give you all massive feels. Also, 3000 views. Awesomesauce.  
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**The Detective - You know, the spell check doesn't register "Rosemodne" as a typo. It's very odd and confusing. (I actually googled "Rosemodne" and on of the things that came up was this fic. Weird.) Thank you for pointing that out, it's been fixed. ^_^" And really, the foreshadowing was completely accidental. I just sort of saw Ivar as the kind of guy who would take the time to point out every flaw in something like the Cloud Ruler Temple. So yay, it all worked out!  
**

**Ailkaro - Oh, don't worry, I'm sure I'll make plenty of hilarious typos that completely kill all tension in the future. And yeah. Feels abound.  
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**Hakan Finnsson - Thank you! And yeah, I noticed that you had started a fanfiction! I'm very much looking forward to reading it. :D It looks very interesting. And I have been trying to update at a better speed, which I suppose is good for all involved. I hope I'll be able to keep up the update streak.  
**

**harari24 - Feels are always good. Especially Ivar feels because well, Ivar.**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

_The Third of Heartfire, 3E433_

* * *

It was just business.

That was what he had told Rosemonde as he left. Her look of contempt said that she knew almost exactly what he meant by "business." But she didn't. Not really. This was business, yes, but is was a special kind of business. "Purification," Lucien Lachance had called it. Kill everyone in the Sanctuary, prove himself loyal to Sithis and only Sithis, and wipe out the traitor in the process.

Ivar had objected at first. Of course he had. The sanctuary was his family, as surely as his parents were. But Lucien had ordered him to do it. Lucien had talked about the will of Sithis and the Night Mother. And if Sithis willed it...

...Well, Ivar couldn't exactly say no, could he? Wrath of Sithis and all that.

_Besides,_ he told himself, _it's just business_. Emotions had no place in his job. He had learned that when he joined.

It was just business.

That was what he kept telling himself as he left the Temple and traveled to Cheydinhal, cutting between the Jerall Mountains and the Great Forest in order to get there as quickly as possible.

Just. Business.

Maybe if he told himself that enough, he would begin to believe it.

Because it was true. It was not done out of vengeance or passion. There were no emotions behind this. There couldn't be. Not with this.

It was just business.

* * *

_"Warmest welcome to you, Brother! I am Telaendril, loyal daughter of Sithis. I hope you find our Sanctuary to your liking."  
_

* * *

Telaendril was the first to die.

She was standing outside the Sanctuary well, as was her duty that day. Ivar didn't have to do much. He climbed the abandoned house from a side that she could not see, taking care to avoid getting caught by the guards on patrol. He had sat on the rooftop, high above her, and nocked an arrow.

He aimed.

He fired.

The death was quick and relatively bloodless. It wouldn't be long before someone saw the body and cried for the guards, and he planned on being long gone by then. He regretted it the moment the arrow pierced Telaendril's flesh, though he forced those feelings away.

Sometimes in business, you had to do things you regret.

And that's what this was.

Business.

Just business.

* * *

_"Warmest greetings to you. I trust you've already spoken with Ocheeva? I am Vicente Valtieri. I provide assignments for all new family members. Please, do not let me appearance... unnerve you. The needs of the Tenets and the Dark Brotherhood come before my own needs as a vampire, I assure you."  
_

* * *

Vicente Valtieri was the second to die.

He was a vampire. Ivar knew how to fight vampires. Fire. Funnily enough, Vicente also had a rather crippling allergy to garlic. Not one to waste opportunities, Ivar devised a relatively odd plan: Stick a glove of garlic on a thin branch and light it on fire. It was probably overkill, but Ivar couldn't take chances. Vampires had an annoying tendency to resist most attempts at death.

The Sanctuary well Telaendril was guarding would lead straight into the Sanctuary, avoiding the Dark Guardian that prowled near the main entrance. Ivar made good use of it. He slipped into the vampire's room. Ivar had planned to sneak up behind Vicente, but the latter's increased vampire senses had made that impossible. So Ivar had been forced to attack him head on.

He had never expected to use a flaming garlic clove on a stick as a weapon before. He hated how he had to wield it. He despised how he had to shove it down Vicente's throat so he wouldn't call for help, hated watching him thrash in pain for almost a full two minutes before going still, his skin turning ashen and beginning to flake as soon as his heart stopped beating.

Ivar got to his feet, forcing himself to stop shaking. _They can't all be clean kills_, he told himself. _Business gets messy sometimes._

And that's all it was.

Just business.

* * *

_"If it isn't the newest member of the Family. Let's get one thing straight, elf - the Tenets prevent me from killing you. But I don't have to like you. I'll sell you equipment, but only because Ocheeva is making me. This Family doesn't need any... outsiders."_

* * *

M'raaj-Dar was the third to die.

He had approached Ivar, surprisingly enough. Ivar, understandably, had been on his guard. He did not believe that anyone in his Family could have betrayed the Brotherhood, but if he had to guess, it would have been M'raaj-Dar. Mostly out of agitation; the Khajiit had always been cold to Ivar, all but outright stating that he would be dead if not for the Five Tenets.

But M'raaj-Dar had spoken of how he wanted to apologize, and how he was impressed by all the work Ivar had done. "So let's start over, shall we?" the Khajiit had said, ears pricked upwards with anticipation.

The way Ivar saw it, there were two options: either M'raaj-Dar knew of his fate and was trying to avoid it any way he could, or he genuinely wanted to be friends. He wanted to believe it was the former, desperately trying to force his way into believing that it was the former. But it couldn't be. M'raaj-Dar had no way of knowing Ivar's business. He genuinely wanted to be friends.

That's why it hurt all the more. Ivar forced himself to shut the pain away and opened his arms, seemingly in a hug of new-found friendship. But as M'raaj-Dar accepted the embrace, Ivar drove his blade into the Khajiit's back. It was cold, cruel, and cowardly. But it worked.

The last thing in M'raaj-Dar's eyes before they closed was hurt. _How could you?_ his gaze seemed to be asking.

"I'm sorry, Brother," Ivar murmured as he lay the Khajiit's already-cooling body down on the cold floor of the Sanctuary. "It's just business."

And that's what it was.

Just business.

* * *

_"Welcome! Welcome to the family! I'd hug you, but Ocheeva told me not to."_

* * *

Gogron gro-Bolmog was the fourth to die. He was also the quickest kill.

Ivar was not willing to face him directly. He was a fierce fighter, and he almost always wore his armor. The head of his battle-axe was twice as lage as Ivar's head, and the latter did not want that thing anywhere near his neck.

So he used something else to get around that. Lucien had given him one thing to help him in the Purification: an apple, small and red and almost seductively delicious-looking. It was also poisoned, Lucien had said, with a toxin that carries no taste or smell, and will kill within moments. He knew he couldn't get past Gogron's armor or battle-axe, so this was the next best thing.

He had walked into the living quarters calmly, where Gogron was digging around in the cupboard for something to eat. Ivar offered him the apple, saying that he had already eaten and to "consider it a gift." Gogron, not thinking, took it an sank his large teeth into it.

He didn't realize what had happened until keeling over, his blood frozen in his veins.

Ivar kicked the remaining piece of apple away. "It's just business," he reminded himself.

That was when he noticed Ocheeva and Teinaava standing in the doorway.

* * *

_"Greetings, greetings! I am Ocheeva, mistress of this Sanctuary. Lucien has told me all about you. Let me welcome you to the Dark Brotherhood!"_

* * *

_"I welcome you to our family, and this Sanctuary. May you find yourself at home here, in the loving embrace of our Lady, the Night Mother."_

* * *

Teinaava and Ocheeva were the fifth and sixth to die, respectively.

It was a fierce battle. The two of them had been trained their whole lives in the art of stealth and assassination. Ivar could not outwit them, and he was having trouble outfighting them. The battle crossed most of the Sanctuary, Ivar being pushed back repeatedly. He had trying charging forward again once, and received a rather nasty gash on his left arm for his troubles

He managed to fell Teinaava with a well-placed strike with his dagger, right at the Argonian's throat. At the sight of her brother falling to the ground, dead before he hit the floor, Ocheeva stopped holding back. In all honesty, Ivar hadn't even realized she had been holding back until she stopped. Not she was attacking with the full intention to kill, and very nearly succeeded several times.

It was only by sheer luck that his dagger found its way through her heart.

Ocheeva had been the first to welcome Ivar to the Sanctuary. She had given him several of his assignments, and had been like a sister to him. While he was not quite as close to Teinaava, they had still done favors for each other several times, and had maintained a friendly relationship.

And now they both were dead.

As her body fell to the floor, Ivar slumped against the nearby wall, pressing his palm against the dash in his shoulder.

Sometimes, he told himself, business went wrong. He hadn't intended for them to see him kill Gogron. He had hoped to kill them silently, painlessly.

But business went wrong. And that's what it was, after all.

Just business.

* * *

_"I've heard so much about you. Welcome to our family, dear brother! So good to finally meet you! I hope you're getting along all right."_

* * *

Antoinetta Marie, dear sweet Antoinetta Marie, was the last to die. It also hurt most.

He had a soft spot for Antoinetta. While she had joined a year before he did, they had trained together, and she had revealed herself to be a near expert at potion-making. You wouldn't have guessed her deadly skillset at first glance, though, with her endearing smile and enthusiastic temperament. He had found it rather abrasive at first, but soon warmed up to her. There was something about her that made him like her and appreciate her company. He wasn't sure what it was.

And now he had to kill her.

She had been out on business when he arrived. So he let his wound fester and bleed, crawling in a corner and waiting, watching the door with a careful eye. Hours passed before Antoinetta walked in, cooing about how she had effortlessly killed her latest target. Then she saw the bloody corpses of Ocheeva and Teinaava, as well as Ivar huddled in the corner nursing his shoulder, and she screamed.

Ivar got to his feet and staggered forward, letting out a sob that was not as fake as he liked to believe. As he fell into Antoinetta's arms, he spun a wild tale about an insane guard who had found the Sanctuary and killed everyone inside, leaving him for dead. Antoinetta didn't question him, leading him to the living quarters, and laying him down on the bed. "You stay here," she said. "I'm going to go see if Vicente has..." her lower lip trembled, and guilt wracked through Ivar, "...if he _had_ any healing potions."

It was only when she had her back turned that Ivar struck. Turning himself invisible, he silently got to his feet, crept up behind the young blonde Breton and snapped her neck. It was an instant kill. She never felt a thing. She never knew who killed her.

It was only when she was laying on the floor, her eyes glazed over, that the wall Ivar had build to house his emotions broke. "It's just business," he told himself, desperate to believe it. "It's just business, it's just business, it's just..."

Then he fell to his knees, and for the first time in years, started to cry.

* * *

"No longer will you receive orders directly. Instead, you will visit dead drop locations all around Cyrodiil, where contracts will be waiting, hidden for you and you alone."

"Yes," sir."

"Ah, yes, and there is one last thing. I have for you a very special gift. Waiting just outside the walls of Cheydinhal is a magnificent steed named Shadowmere. She has served me well. I present her to you now as a token of my trust."

"Thank you, sir."

"We will not speak again, unless I deem it necessary."

"I understand, sir."

Ivar watched Lucien leave with a cold, blank expression on his face. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, empty, hollow, staring down at the blood staining his gloves.

It was only at the thought of Cloud Ruler Temple that he started moving. If there was one thing that would get his mind off of all this, it was destroying the zealots that had taken the Amulet.

They believed themselves "assassins." They knew nothing of what it meant to be an assassin.

They knew nothing of the pain it brought.

The pain that he wasn't allowed to feel.

For after all, it was just business, wasn't it?

* * *

**A/N - Are you having feels yet?**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	19. Barefoot

**A/N - Sorry about the wait, I've been pretty stressed out recently, to say the least. I gotta say, not so excited about all the fics getting taken down recently. I know mine likely isn't explicit enough to warrant a take-down, but it's still got me paranoid. Kathi + paranoia = lots of worrying, stress, anxiety, and general all-around suckiness So, updates are going to be a bit slow for a while. Maybe. Maybe writing will help the stress, I don't know. Also, four thousand views. Awesome.  
**

**harari24 - Curse you, fanfiction dot net! *shakes fist* Yeah, the Dark Brotherhood questline is just heart-tearing in all sorts of ways. Purification is the worst, though. "Congrats! All the characters you've grown to love _die._" Thanks, Bethesda.  
**

**The Detective - Thank you! I must say, it's good to be back! It was my goal to make Ivar's breakdown as feels-causing as possible, and it's good to know I've succeeded! (And gods, M'raaj-Dar. It's like, dude, you had to go and be nice to me now? Jerk.)  
**

**wayslind - Oh, thank you! :) This was one of my favorite chapters to write; I've been anticipating it since I first came up with the Unlikely Heroes idea about a year or so ago. You can never have to many feels, I say.  
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**ShiningInTheMoonlight - Thank you! :D I'm sad to report that there are no feels of last chapter's level. Just fluff and plot connecting. But I have plenty of feels prepared for later in the book, believe you me. :D  
**

**NicciP1991 - Oh, hello, reader from Germany! :D Tears were what I was shooting for, I will admit. And yeah, business is business, no matter how sucky it may be. At least when it comes to being an assassin, that is.  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

_The Ninth of Hearthfire, 3E433  
_

* * *

The last time Rosemonde had gone barefoot, she had been in prison. It hadn't exactly pleasant. The ground in the prison had been damp and moldy, not to mention she had to wade through ruins and sewers barefoot not two weeks after she had been thrown in prison. But that time wasn't like this time. Here, in Cloud Ruler Temple, with friendly salutations from the Blades at every corner, she felt... different. At home, almost. It was the closest she was going to get to being back at the University. Of course, here at Cloud Ruler Temple there less of a chance of getting hit by a stray fireball. Here, she felt safe without shoes, her toes pressed against the cool floor below her.

She made her way into the dining area, carrying a large amount of books in her arms and using a small amount of magicka to move her pltce of food telekinetically. Her bare feet made little sound against the floor as she reached the far table. Martin hadn't noticed her; he was engrossed in his book, the plate of food on the table in front of him barely touched. Rosemonde hesitated for only the briefest of moments before promptly sitting down, releasing the spell on her plate and letting it clatter against the wood, keeping only the barest of telekinetic energy on the food itself to keep it from spilling everywhere. Martin jumped, startled, fumbling with the book. "Rosemonde!" he exclaimed.

"Martin," Rosemodne said, grinning. "Must be a good book."

"Oh, ah, yes, it is." Martin placed the book on the table. Rosemonde tried to get a glance at the title, but he had apparently placed it face-down by accident.. "You seem to be enjoying the library yourself," Martin said, nodding towards the books she was carrying.

Rosemonde shrugged, slamming the books onto the table with a loud and satisfying _thud_. "Call me curious. They've got several interesting books. One about Akavir, one about the Warp in the West..." She glanced at the book on the top of the pile. It was a thin, worn book, with the corners of the pages worn and bent as if it had been read many times over. "I'm not even sure if I want to know what 'The Lusty Argonian Maid' is about, but maybe Ivar will enjoy it."

"How is Ivar? Has he..." Martin seemed to hesitate. "Has he spoken to you yet?

Rosemonde shook her head. "I think he's eating, which is an improvement. Still won't talk to me, though." She sighed slightly. "I just want to know what happened to make him like this."

Ivar had returned from whatever "business" he had been doing three days ago, his expression broken and his gait stiff. Rosemonde had rushed to greet him, but he had pushed her aside and went to the barracks. He had just sat in one of the bunks, staring off at nothing in particular. His only movement that she could see was the occasional twitch of his ears. He hadn't responded when she had tried to talk to him, either, not even so much as sparing her a glance.

To say it was worrying would have been an understatement. She grabbed her fork and prodded at the venison on her plate. "I considered going to the Mage's Guild to see if they could help," she said, "but they don't have a mage specializing in this sort of thing, and with Jeanne Frasoric running the place...well, I can't say a particularly trust _her_ to know what she's talking about." She didn't exactly have anything against Jeanne, per se. She just thought that the woman couldn't magic her way out of a beggar's sack and had unfairly gotten the position through some elaborate string-pulling. "Besides," Rosemonde added, "I don't think this is anything that a bit of restorative magic can fix, or I'd have fixed it when he got back."

She glanced down at the table. "Don't tell Ivar I said this, but... I'm worried about him."

She couldn't say she liked Ivar, exactly. He was too abrasive, too inconsiderate and disrespectful for her to _ever_ truly like him. But she had never truly seen him like this before, so... detached, empty, and it baffled her, worried her. Granted, she had only met him a couple weeks ago, but she thought that she had gotten a pretty good idea of what he was like. But now she was starting to rethink that.

"What about you?"

Rosemonde looked up at Martin, blinking in confusion. "Sorry?"

"Look at yourself, Rosemonde," the priest said quietly. "When was the last time you slept? And I don't mean dozing off for a few minutes, either," he added. There was more than a hint of concern in his deep blue eyes.

"I..."

That was a good question, she had to admit. She couldn't remember if she had slept at all in the week they had been at Cloud Ruler Temple. Everything seemed to pass in a blur nowadays, when she wasn't actively talking to someone. But she wasn't eager to go to sleep any time soon. "W-well, I, uh, haven't really had the time," she stammered, struggling to come up with an excuse. "Been... busy." That was a bold-faced lie and the both of them knew it. Rosemonde wasn't willing to divulge exactly why she was avoiding sleep so much.

The truth was, while she couldn't remember when she had last slept, she could certainly remember what had happened. She had gotten another nightmare. It wasn't the same one as the last one, but this one had been... worse, in a way. It had just been her, in the crypt, huddling in the corner, rocking back and forth like a small, scared child. She might as well have been.

That wasn't the worst part, though. The worst part was that there was a mangled body in the room with her. It changed every times she looked at it. Sometimes it was Sondilar. Sometimes it was one of her other friends at the university. Sometimes it was Ivar. And sometimes it was Martin. It always hurt worse when it was Sondilar, though, because that thought, the thought of her Altmer friend laying on the ground, broken and bruised, was not a nightmare or a falsehood brought forth by her inner disgust at herself. It was a memory, a memory of something real and true that she would never get out of her head.

She didn't want that nightmare again.

"Busy or not, you're not going to be able to stay awake forever," Martin pointed out, jolting Rosemonde from her thoughts.

Rosemonde sighed slightly, stabbing at her venison again. "All right, then. I'll get some sleep tonight, I promise. But you have to promise to wake me up if Son- if Ivar says something." She hesitated. Why did she almost say "Sondilar?" Perhaps Martin was right. Perhaps she really did need some sleep. Casting her glance around to get her mind off of it, she looked down at the pile of books, grimacing when she saw _The Lusty Argonian__ Maid_ sitting of the top, almost smug in its appearance. If a book could be smug that is. "You know what? If Ivar wants this, he can get it when he stops doing whatever he's doing." With a flick of her wrist and some telekinetic magic, she sent the book flying through the air and towards the bookshelf on the far side of the room. It crashed through the back of the bookshelf and fell behind it, leaving a splintered hole where there was dark wood moments before. "That wasn't supposed to happen," she said.

"Does that always happen?" Martin asked. "When you use magic, I mean."

"What, you mean me putting far more power than I should into my spells?" Rosemonde asked, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I was sort of trained into doing it, and it's been a hard habit to beat. My parents were both destructive mages, and they taught me how to control my magicka while I was growing up. I only went to the Guild about six months months ago, you understand. And they, my mother in particular, had a philosophy of 'the more magicka you burn, the hotter the flame.' Now, had I been a destructive mage, or a battlemage, that would have been useful. But..." She lifted her knife with a bit of her magic, letting it float a foot above the table.

"But you became a mystic," Martin finished.

"Mm-hmm." Rosemonde let the knife drop. "I've always found mysticism and alteration very useful schools of magic, but I've never actually met that many mystics. I wanted to help sort of fill that gap." She glanced at the bookshelf again. "Odd that I'd feel most at home with the Chorrol guild hall."

_Not really_, that small, irritating voice in the back of her head._ After all, necromancy _is _a type of conjuration..._ She forced that thought from her mind, suppressing the inevitable wave of guilt that would inevitably follow. _I've had my fill of guilt for today, thank you.__  
_

"So you always wanted to be a mage, then?" Martin asked.

"As long as I can remember, yes," Rosemonde replied. "It was mostly my mother that influenced _that_ particular life decision, but it was mostly my father who trained me. But really, there's always been something _about_ magic that's drawn me to it." She looked at him, tilting her head slightly. "What about you? What made you decide to be a priest?"

There was a flash of unreadable emotion in Martin's eyes. Before he could speak, though, there was the sound of someone loudly and irritably clearing their throat. Rosemonde blinked and turned around to see a very familiar fair-haired Bosmer standing behind her, raising an eyebrow in impatience. "Ivar!" she exclaimed. "When did you... How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Ivar said. "I was beginning to think you two were ignoring me. I mean, I would have expected this from you, Rosemonde, of course. You have the perceptive skills of a mudcrab. But Martin? Really? I was right there!" He sat down, seemingly oblivious to the shocked expressions of both Rosemonde and Martin. He reached over and grabbed Rosemonde's plate, ignoring her objections. "Also, you two are honestly _boring_. Never thought a conversation about magic would reach that point, but there you go."

"Ivar..." Rosemonde hesitated, unsure on whether she should ask or not. She decided on "should." "Ivar, what in Oblivion happened back there? What happened to _you_?"

Ivar stared at her, sharp green eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His ear twitched, and his smirk fell. "I don't know what you're talking about." An odd expression flashed across his face for an instant before disappearing. Was it... regret? Over what?

"Oh, so being completely unresponsive to the world, we're just going to ignore that then?" Rosemonde said, a little more bitterly than she had intended.

"Exactly. Glad you understand." He took a bite out of the venison, and paused. "Venison? Really? You couldn't have grabbed something with any actual taste to it?"

"You..." Exasperated, Rosemonde stood up. She couldn't believe that she _missed_ this Ivar. The minute he opened his mouth, it was if the past few days of worry were suddenly gone. Damn him. "I'm going to go get some sleep," she said, shooting a smile at Martin. She was irrationally happy when he smiled back. "I did promise, after all," she added, before turning around and walking out, her bare toes pressing against the slightly warmer floor below her.

* * *

_"What are you... By the Nine Divines!"  
_

_"Wait! I can explain, I swear!"_

_"Rosemonde, what have you done?"  
_

_"I... wait, no! No!"_

* * *

**A/N - I made you wait this long for filler. I am so sorry. Like, honestly. I swear, I'll try to make sure this doesn't happen again.  
**

**Reviews and constructive criticism is much appreciated.  
**


	20. Baurus

**A/N - And now we come back to the main plot. Awesome! (Sorry for the wait, by the way, I just finished another Rosemonde playthrough and had myself a good cry and then started another Ivar playthrough.)  
**

**The Detective - Aw, thank you! :) And I really regret nothing with that line. Nothing at all. I really just _had_ to mention TLAM at least once in this fic. (And I agree with you on the whole Martin/OC thing being difficult to write, mostly because Martin himself is difficult to write. Stupid perfect Martin and his stupid perfect complex personality.)  
**

**melliemellie - I'd be lying if I said that I never entertained the notion of Ivar/Rosemonde becoming somewhere canon along the way, haha. (After the main quest, of course.) Really, though, I'm looking at some of the scenes I have planned out, and Ivar has tension/chemistry/what-have-you with a few people, so it's just a big Ivar thing.  
**

**as-sh - Oh, thank you! It seems a lot of people liked the "Lusty Argonian Maid" line. I suppose it comes from the notoriety of the work in question, eh? (And yeah, gotta say, I'm not much of a fan of the new layout. Didn't realize they made it more difficult to change the guest name, though. That sucks.)  
**

**I do not own Oblivion in any way.**

* * *

_The Tenth of Hearthfire, 3E433_

* * *

"I've received news from the Imperial City about our enemy."

"Well, it's about damn time," Ivar growled, crossing his arms and glaring at the Grandmaster. "I thought we'd never get anything done around here."

_Says the man who did nothing sat in a bed for three days_, Rosemonde thought, raising an eyebrow at him. He quite pointedly ignored it and continued his little rant. "I mean, honestly, anyone with a hint of competence would have gotten the Amulet around Martin's neck by now. What are these Blades around here doing, collecting lint?" he finished, gesturing wildly around him. Rosemodne had to wince. It was a very good thing they were in the Grandmaster's quarters, where no one would hear them.

"Are you done," Jauffre asked, shooting a steely glare towards the Bosmer assassin, "or are you going to insult my men some more?" His expression very clearly stated that the second option would not be a welcomed one.

"Oh, I'm done," Ivar said, crossing his arms over his chest. "For now, at least."

"Good." Jauffre turned back to Rosemonde. "One of my Blades has learned something about the assassins that have been dogging at our steps, something vital that may be the key to figuring out how to get the Amulet back. He will be in the Imperial City, at Luther Broad's Boarding House. You must waste no time."

Rosemonde opened her mouth to ask why he couldn't send one of the Blades to do it instead - not that she didn't want to go, she was just curious - but Ivar cut her off, smirking. "The Imperial City, hmm?" he said, his gaze distant and thoughtful. "Well, then, if we're going to be gallivanting about in broad daylight in the Elven Gardens District, perhaps I should change into more appropriate attire." He gestured to his armor.

"Since when have you cared about subtlety?" Rosemonde asked, raising an eyebrow.

"When the situation calls for it," Ivar shot back. "It really hasn't so far. After all, our enemy doesn't seem to care for the art."

Rosemonde fought the urge to roll her eyes. Arrogant git. "Yes, that's how our enemy managed to slip out from under our noses with the Amulet of Kings. Clearly, they are but novice assassins."

"They're _not_ assassins." Ivar turned away. "If you'll excuse me, I have some subtlety to employ."

With that, he was gone, quite literally. The door opened by its own, and then slid firmly shut. Rosemonde considered using her magic to make sure he was really gone, but decided against it. If he decided to eavesdrop, there was really nothing she could do about it. Not that there was much to eavesdrop on, anyways. As far as she was concerned the conversation was over. "I should go tell Martin where we're headed," she said. "I'm sure he'd be eager to hear about this."

"Of course," Jauffre said, nodding. "And... keep an eye on Ivar while you're in the City."

"Why? He can take care of himself." _Far better than I can, at any rate._

"No, it's not that. I don't trust him."

"Ivar may be a conceited, sarcastic arse with no sense of morality or priorities, he _was_ the one who closed the Oblivion Gate in Kvatch. Martin would very likely be dead several times over if it weren't for him." Rosemonde paused. "I don't like him, no. But I trust him. He's on our side."

Jauffre shook his head ever-so-slightly. "He's an assassin. He's on nobody's side except his own, and even that is not certain. Assassins are volatile people, Rosemonde, and _will_ change sides if it suits them. Remember that before you so quickly place your faith in him.

Rosemonde hesitated. As much as Jauffre's words made sense, Ivar had never struck her as the backstab-for-coin type. His... "business" was the only thing he was particularly serious about, and he seemed to have a great deal of respect for the work, as immoral as it was. Surely he wouldn't switch sides at the first sign of a jingling coinpurse, would he?

_This isn't a job,_ the voice in the back of her head told her. _And remember, he _was_ hired to kill Martin. Who's to say he won't try to finish the job?_

A cold chill ran down Rosemonde's spine. "...I understand."

* * *

_The Eleventh of Hearthfire, 3E433_

* * *

It was raining in the Imperial City. Sort of fitting, really, given the overall sense of dread that had settled in the districts. Rosemonde didn't need to ask around to know why that sense was there. There were whispers in the streets about it: the Emperor's death. Some of the rumors were false. Some people were under the impression that it was the Dark Brotherhood; given Ivar's frequent scowls, that was anything but true. _Not that the Brotherhood were never at least somewhat involved, though__,_ she thought, remembering what Jauffre told her. It had raised a single question, gnawing at her subconscious.

What would have happened if Ivar had been able to kill Martin?

She dreaded the idea.

"We're here," Ivar said, freezing in his tracks next to a thick wooden door. The swinging sign above said, in clear letters, _"Luther Broad's Boarding House."_ "Come on," he said, running a hand through his soaking hair. He had changed from his black leather armor into a less conspicuous brown tunic and breeches, having chosen to forgo shoes. He seemed to be regretting that decision very much. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not catch my death from cold." With a casual shrug, he elbowed the door open and slid inside, Rosemonde following close behind.

The boarding house was similar to most of the other inns in the city, if a bit smaller. Apart from the publican, there were only two people in the inn: a rather irritable-looking Breton man with messy black hair reading in the corner...

...And a very familiar Redguard sitting on a stool by the main counter, seeming a bit too interested in the drink in front of him.

Ivar stood there, tilting his head slightly, a look of bemusement of his face. Rosemonde, however, wasted no time in walking up to the counter and sitting next to the Redguard, staring at him incredulously. "_Baurus?_"

The Reguard's head snapped up. "Shh!" he hissed, glaring at her. "Act like you don't know me." His lips barely moved, and his words were quiet, so quiet that Rosemonde was the only one would could hear."

Rosemonde blinked, but glanced away. "Oh, I'm sorry. I must have mistaken you for someone else." Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Baurus give an almost imperceptible nod. "Excuse me!" she said, gesturing to the publican. "A bottle of wine, please. Some of the finest you have." She slapped a few septims on the counter. By the Divines, she needed a drink.

The man, who she assumed to be Luther Broad, nodded and disappeared into the cellar. She glanced over at Ivar. He had gotten over his initial shock and was leaning against the wall next to the door, glancing around apathetically. At least, he seemed to be doing it apathetically.

She head Baurus speak, and resisted the instinct to jump and whirl in her seat. "Listen," he whispered. "In a few minutes, when Luther comes back up with your wine, I'm going to get up and go down into the cellar. That guy in the corner, the Breton? He's going to follow me. I want you two to follow _him._"

"All right," Rosemonde whispered back.

An agonizingly slow minute passed before Luther Broad came back up with the wine. As soon as he did so, Baurus stood up. The two men shot each other a knowing look before Baurus walked over to the stairs leading down to the wine cellar and disappeared out of sight. As Rosemonde watched, the Breton stood up, closed his book, placed it carefully on the table, and followed him. As soon as he was out of sight, Rosemonde stood up and made her way to the stairs, gesturing at Ivar to follow her as she did.

The basement was barely lit and smelled quite strongly of wine. Baurus was standing at the foot of the stairs, back turned to the Breton man a few steps above and behind him. He didn't seem to notice that the Breton had drawn a thin, red-and-black dagger from seemingly nowhere and was slowly raising it over his head, either. Rosemonde did, however.

Quicker than anyone could react, she had grabbed the man with her telekinesis and tossed him against the wall. He let out a muffled cry of shock as he was pinned against the stone, barely able to turn his head. Baurus had whirled around and drawn his sword, pointing it at the would-be killer "Who in Oblivion are you?" Rosemonde demanded. "What do you want?"

Before the Breton could answer, a flash of silver whirled through the air before a dagger had found itself buried in his chest up to the hilt. Rosemonde dropped the man's corpse and whirled around to glare fiercely at Ivar, who was clutching something in his left hand. "What's wrong with you?" she demanded.

Ivar shrugged. "Nothing."

Baurus swore under his breath, sheathing his sword. "Damn. I was hoping we could get something out of him... Ivar, tell me you've got a damn good reason for doing what you just did."

"I'm insulted, Baurus, really. I never do anything without a 'damn good reason.'" Ivar tossed down the item he had been holding, and Rosemonde caught it with a suprised look on her face. She glanced down at the title, emblazoned onto the front cover in sharp lettering. "'Commentaries on the Mythic Dawn?' What's this?" The name seemed vaguely familiar. She could remember coming across a book with the same title in the Arcane University's library.

Ivar's grin grew wider. "If I'm correct, that could very well be the key to finding that Amulet.

* * *

**A/N - I am so tired.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.  
**


	21. Trust

**A/N - Darlings, I'm home! Sorry for the disappearance. I just had a lot of crap I had to pull together. But don't worry, I'm back. I won't be updating quite as frequently, due to school and such, but damned if I won't try my hardest!**

**Also, SIX THOUSAND VIEWS WHERE ARE YOU PEOPLE EVEN COMING FROM.  
**

**ShiningInTheMoonlight - Oh, thank you! I'm glad I got the characterizations right. Especially Jauffre. He's a cool old man, but he's a pain in the royal arse to write in-character. And thank you for pointing out the typoes! :D  
**

**kiabella - Ack! Sorry. I've just been really busy lately. But don't worry, I'm back. ^_^  
**

**Rynn15 - Oh, thank you! And don't worry, you can always get your fill of snarky socially-inept assassin Bosmer here.**

**harari24 - Well, I'm really late in delivering this chapter, so we can just call it even, no?**

* * *

"What do you mean?" Rosemonde asked, at the exact same time that Baurus said, "What's this about the Amulet?"

Ivar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I can't answer two questions at once," he huffed, crossing his harms. His intent to antagonize clearly worked, as Rosemonde gritted her teeth and glowered at him, and Baurus raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "For the sake of clarity, since most of the future conversation will revolve around the answer to Baurus's question... We lost the Amulet of Kings."

"You _what?_"

"Yes. We lost it. It slipped right through our fingers like a baby slaughterfish. Imagine that, sending one of the two inexperienced tagalongs from a prison cell to deliver one of the most important objects in all of Tamriel was a poor idea. Figures. After all, when have the Blades ever shown some degree of _competence?_" That was meant purely to ire. He didn't want to hang around, playing ask-and-answer all day. He wanted to get the Amulet back and get out of the way. Preferably far out of the way.

He heard Skyrim was _lovely_ this time of year. Fresh air, very much free of political and magical turmoil.

Baurus's eyes narrowed, and he turned to Rosemonde. "Is this true?"

"Y-yes." Rosemonde was gripping the book tight enough to turn her knuckles snow-white. "He... well, he is phrasing it a little differently than how it happened. And omitting his own part in its loss." Another glare. "It was delivered safely. But... the Priory was attacked, by the same people who killed the Emperor."

"The Mythic Dawn," Baurus said. "A Daedric cult. They managed to attack the Priory itself?"

Rosemonde nodded. "The shepherd was an agent of theirs, and managed to get out with the Amulet. We... we _let_ him. He was right there, the Amulet was within our reach, and we let him go because we thought he was just a terrified bystander. We were stupid." Her gaze was downcast now. "It was pretty stupid of us."

Ivar, on the other hand, felt completely guiltless. "Hey, now, there's no need to go blaming _yourself_ over it, Rosie," he said. "After all, I think we all know that it was really Jauffre's fault. He was the one who hired the shepherd in the first place." He shook his head dramatically, pointedly ignoring the glare he received from both Rosemonde _and_ Baurus. "We did manage to get the dear old Emperor's bastard son. He was in Kvatch. After it burnt down. Long story, that."

Rosemonde seemed to brighten noticeably at the very mention of said Emperor's son. "Yes. His name is Martin, and he's safe at Cloud Ruler Temple."

"'Safe' is not the word I would use. Honestly, why are you lot so willfully blind to your own flaws? And _why_ does no one watch the windows?"

"Ivar!" Rosemonde snapped. "Now is not the time! _Honestly!_"

"All right, all right, I'm not going to argue with someone who can throw me across the room without blinking." Ivar raised his hands up in mock defeat. The truth was, he just didn't particularly care enough to push the matter. Watching Baurus grow steadily angrier was fun, he could always use some entertainment, and the Blades were an easy target, his heart just wasn't in it. His heart wasn't really in a lot of things, really.

Baurus had breathed a sigh of relief. "Then not all is lost. Still, we must find the Amulet and retrieve it as soon as possible. And Ivar was right," he added reluctantly. "That book can help. How much do you know of the Mythic Dawn."

Rosemonde shrugged. "Nothing but what you just told me. They're a Daedric cult who assassinated-"

"_They aren't assassins._"

"Ivar, now's not really the time." Even Rosemonde seemed a bit more exasperated than normal. She wasn't even trying to quip back, nor did she seem particularly interested in what he had to say at all. _What happened to you, Rosie?_ he though, scowling slightly. _You're no fun. _Granted, he couldn't exactly say he fit the definition of "fun," but still.

Baurus nodded. "Well, that's most of what I know. Apparently they worship the Daedric Prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon, and that," he said, gesturing to the book, "apparently, is very important to them. Every cultist I've run into has had a copy of one of those books on them."

"One of?"

"There's a set, apparently." He leaned against the wall. "What I want the two of you to do is go to the Arcane University and talk to Tar-Meena. She's the-"

"She's the Keeper of the Mystic Archives," Rosemonde said. Her face had drained of what little color it possessed, and she clutched the book to her chest like a young Khajiit would cling to a toy Guar. "O-of course. We'll... we'll go right away." Ivar couldn't help but tilt his head and furrow his brow at this strange change of demeanor. Rosie was part of the University before she wound up in this right old mess, wasn't she? So why did she suddenly act as if the ghost of Uriel Septim himself had risen up from his grave and talked a bunch about silly things like fate and visions?

Then he remembered that she had been mumbling something about a fellow named Sondilar a while ago in her sleep, and how an Altmer by that name had died. _Ah,_ he though. _Someone doesn't want to be reminded of their dear old dead friend._

He understood that.

Baurus, surprisingly enough given that he was a Blade and Blades tended to lack things such as _perception_ and _intelligence_, also noticed the shift in attitude. "You all right?" he asked, furrowing a brow. "You look a bit ill. Something you ate?"

_By Sithis's arse._ So much for being more perceptive than the common Blade. Ivar rolled his eyes.

"N-no," Rosemonde said, clearly trying to be firm. The trembling of her voice, though, sort of nullified said attempt at firmness. "I'm fine, Baurus. I-It's just... been a while since I've been to the University." She was lying. It was plainly obvious. By the Night Mother, she was a bad liar.

Baurus reluctantly nodded. "All right. If you're sure you're feeling well. I'll be here. Come see me once you're talked to Tar-Meena. Oh, and one more thing."

"Hmm?"

Baurus grinned. "It's good to see you again. And you too, Ivar, even if you've somehow become more of an ass than when we first met. I didn't think such a thing was possible."

"Oh, but that's just how I am. Constantly improving."

"I wouldn't call it an 'improvement.'"

"Aw, you don't like me? I'd be heartbroken if I actually cared about your opinion."

"If you didn't care, would you really be responding?"

"I like crushing people under the heel of my verbal boot."

"So you do care."

"I didn't say that."

While the two of them were quipping at each other, Rosemonde had remained silent throughout the whole thing, staring blankly off at nothing in particular. She didn't even look to be _breathing_, and if she was, Ivar didn't notice. He stopped in his verbal argument (which he was _clearly_ winning, despite his rather weak attempts at wit), keeping an eye on her. "So, Baurus, as much as I'd like to continue this truly compelling conversation, we really must be off to inquire about this book. We'll be back in a bit. Come on, Rosie, don't want to be late." He grabbed Rosemonde's arm and pulled her away towards the stairs, smirking at Baurus as the two of them walked up and out of the basement and out into the wet streets of the Imperial City. Instead of heading towards the large gate leading out of the Elven Gardens District, however, he dragged Rosemonde into a nearby ally, his boots silent against the rain-soaked grass.

"Normally I'm not one to particularly care about this sort of thing," he said, "but would you mind explaining why you just sort of... whatever you did back there?"

A few seconds passed before Rosemonde said anything. Well, she didn't exactly "say" anything. Ivar only saw the barest glimmer of a warning in her hazel-gold gaze before he was pinned against the wall with her staff, the breath knocked out of him. "How can I know I can trust you?" Rosemonde demanded. Her hair had fallen free from its loose knot and was getting thoroughly soaked in the rain, somehow only highlighting her sudden ire.

"Ow!" Ivar exclaimed, more out of surprise than anything else. "What in the name of... what was that for, Rosie?"

"Stop _calling_ me that!" Rosemonde shot back. "You didn't answer my question. You were sent to Kvatch to _kill_ Martin, don't deny it, and the only reason you didn't the first time is because the Gate opened and destroyed the city! How do I know you won't try again?"

"Er, because I'm not a complete idiot?" Ivar said. "I heard what you and Jauffre were saying - oh, don't give me that face, how could you not know I was still in the room - and I know he doesn't trust me. If I was utterly stupid enough to kill off your precious emperor, he and you would know it was me. I could flee, yes, but what good would that do me? I still have business in Cyrodiil, and I'd rather not do it with the Blades at my back, incompetent as they may be."

The pressure against his chest lightened up, and Rosemonde's grip, but she didn't move. "So why are you helping?" she asked.

"Because I'm bored," he lied, "and because helping the bastard Emperor of Tamriel take his rightful place will help me in the long run, even if I don't want any credit for this."

"So that's it? You're just being pragmatic? You're not doing this out of the kindness of your heart or anything?"

"Rosie, I don't _have_ a heart."

After what felt like an eternity, Rosemonde moved away, pulling her staff away from Ivar's chest. He let out a sigh of relief. "So, Rosie," he said, ignoring her livid glare. "You never did answer my question. Why are you so worked up over the University?"

Rosemonde hesitated a moment before answering. "I... I don't want to go back there. Bad memories."

"Well, they're not just going to let me in. I'm a stranger to the University, yes? And the Archives are closed off to anyone who isn't an official member of the University."

"So? Just break in. It's not like that's ever stopped you before."

"Yes, but we're supposed to talk to Tar-Meena. And I can just imagine her reaction if I broke into the Archives and tried to speak to her. 'Oh, yes, strange and handsome Bosmer who has just infiltrated the Arcane University, of course I'll help you on your mission of locating cultist writings!' Yes, because that's totally plausible."

"It's a lot more plausible that them welcoming me back with open arms."

"Why? So you probably killed someone. So what? I do it all the time." When Rosemonde didn't answer, Ivar rolled his eyes and sighed. "Listen, Rosie, I'm not going in there alone, not when there's a University member who knows the nuances of the way mages' minds work a lot better than I do. So, you can either accept that and come with me, or we can both stay here until the daedra take all of Tamriel. Your choice."

Rosemonde glared at him. "This is on your head," she said.

"I'll accept that. After all, what's the worst that could possibly happen? The guards will tell us to go away?"

* * *

"Huh. So, I suppose tearfully begging for mercy is out of the question?"

A silent glare from the battlemage was all Ivar got in response.

"Good. I'm not good at the whole 'fake tears' thing. That was more..." he trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. _That was more Antionetta's ruse_.

"I told you," Rosemonde snapped as they were ushered into the walls of the University at swordpoint.

"Indeed. When were you going to tell me you murdered your friend through necromancy, anyways?"

"Shut up."

"I'll take that as a 'never.'"

* * *

**A/N - Because of how long it's been, I sort of cut this chapter short. Fear not, though, the next one should be upwards of 3000 words. It's good to be back.**


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